


Order in Chaos

by Ezlebe



Series: Fracture/Foundation [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Force-Sensitive Hux, Gen, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 85,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you understand, Hux?” Supreme Leader says, leaning down from that impressive height with his usual glower. “This boy is invaluable to the First Order.”</p><p>“Yes, Supreme Leader,” Hux answers, nodding once and determinedly looking forward. He doesn’t understand how this awkward, dark haired boy could be invaluable to anything; he’s all ears and has cried every night for the last three standard weeks.</p><p>Supreme Leader lifts his chin, countenance poised and inarguable. “Your sacrifice is not hollow, nor meaningless. You will assuredly follow him into greatness.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you understand, Hux?” Supreme Leader says, leaning down from that impressive height with his usual glower. “This boy is invaluable to the First Order.”

“Yes, Supreme Leader,” Hux answers, nodding once and determinedly looking forward. He doesn’t understand how this awkward, dark haired boy could be invaluable to anything; he’s all ears and has cried every night for the last three standard weeks.

Supreme Leader lifts his chin, countenance poised and inarguable. “Your sacrifice is not hollow, nor meaningless. You will assuredly follow him into greatness.”

~

Hux clutches his head, taking slow, deep breaths as he listens to Ren scream in the next room. The noise warps his reality, time measured now between the mental noise and physical, and he cannot help the stray thought that pokes through his consciousness wishing that the girl had just killed Ren and ended this entire farce of destiny.

The turmoil somehow gets worse; if Hux were another person, he might apologize.

The entire outburst, post an already tumultuous bacta-induced coma, has outlasted any of Ren’s other frenzies by almost twelve hours, and Hux isn’t sure that he can survive this one. His head – no, his psyche feels like it’s being split further in two with every ensuing scream.

“Sir,” a voice says, familiar and firm.

Hux peeks opens his eyes as best he can, catching Phasma’s pursed lips and icy eyes between his lashes. He hasn’t seen her without a helmet in weeks – her hair is shorter. She also seems completely unaffected by the man in the next room, which of course she is: Hux is here for a reason.

“Captain,” Hux says, the words escaping his throat with little more than a croak. “This is not the time.”

“I don’t enjoy interrupting your… circumstances,” Phasma says, glancing almost imperceptibly in the direction of the neighboring living quarters. “However, Supreme Leader Snoke has notified us that he will be speaking to you both within the next ten minutes.”

Hux stares for a long moment, willing her to disappear like any good delusion, then exhales with a soft sigh, “Of course.”

“Do you need me to send a squad – “

“No, no,” Hux says, standing shakily and gesturing for her to move aside. “The last thing we need is to blatantly send in sacrifices.”

Phasma squares her jaw in some sort of agreement, tipping her head to the side and then stepping away. She grabs her helmet from a nearby table, and Hux realizes with some confusion that she had taken it off only to speak to him. She turns her head after she’s put together, nodding once more as she activates the door with a small hiss.

Hux collapses almost immediately after she is out of sight, digging his fingernails into his forehead. His knees are probably bruised from the alusteel of the floor, and he can hear with some shame his own whimpering; he has to get up, he has to drag Ren back to somewhere near sanity, and he has to do it all within the next ten minutes.

Another scream rips through Hux’s mind, though there’s no physical echo to follow it through the thin wall. It’s a sign, though probably more of Ren’s voice giving out rather than any indication that he’s begun to calm down.

Hux shoves himself up again, using the leverage of the door frame, and grits his teeth for a count of ten before slapping the exit control and forcing himself to enter the hall. He nods to the troopers standing at attention and gestures for them to leave their post, lest they ruin his reputation somehow further than now his entire base is destroyed. He shifts to the right with as much poise as he can manage while they march away, opening Ren’s door with a minor abuse of his station.

The lights in the quarters are at zero percent, and the oppressive dark almost seems another wall. He exhales slowly before stepping in, lifting his chin and affecting the most irritated expression he can muster while preparing for the sight of a man who has been sobbing for the better part of two shift cycles. “Lights, twenty percent.”

Predictably, Ren looks like absolute shit, and the quarters aren’t faring much better. Only seeing the main room, Hux cannot be sure what the sleeping quarters are like, but here he’s upturned the bolted down table and drawers, wrenched the built-in shelving unit into a piece of art, and is currently huddled up in a corner crying into the sleeves of his tattered uniform. He peeks upward at the open door, the edge of a partially healed scar visible along his cheek.

“I didn’t call for you,” Ren says, and despite the outward disdain, his relief is like the turn of a tide, timidly lapping up behind the pain and guilt.

“Not out loud,” Hux snaps, sneering sharply and feeling much better now that his mind isn’t be persistently wracked with baseless screams.

Ren returns to huddling in his robes, staring downward with his fingers turning to claws against his own elbows, hard enough that Hux would swear he can feel every point of pressure.

“Snoke wishes to speak with us,” Hux continues, glancing around the room in search of… Ah. Well. No more helmet. He hums low in his throat and steps forward to grabs Ren’s shoulder, daring to bodily pull upward. “Stop being a child.”

“Let go of me,” Ren snaps, and Hux feels the familiar pressure of the Force as Ren muses on jolting him backward, much to no avail. The pressure dissipates as Ren inhales angrily, shoving his head further into his arms, and the metal behind Hux begins to groan and snap as it’s twisted into aberrant shapes, no doubt attempting to strangle Hux from behind.

“Empty threats won’t work on me, as well you know,” Hux snarls, pulling up and forcing Ren to a standing position. He nudges Ren’s chin to the side, glancing over the new scar, and clicks his tongue sharply. “You let that girl get the best of you, and now everyone will see.”

The creak of the metal ceases, and the screaming starts up again, causing Hux to drop his hands in favor of concentrating on staying vertical. He grits his teeth, “We don’t have time for your pitiful tantrums.”

“I cannot… control it,” Ren says disjointedly, breath coming in slow gasps. Admittedly, to all outward appearances, he does seem to be making some effort to calm his mind, though it is an overwhelming and obvious failure.

“Try,” Hux snaps, and for the first time in a long while pushes Ren like a child, watching him bounce off the alusteel wall. “You’re not the only one suffering when you start thinking like this – I am no longer at your mental whims. I have other responsibilities.”

Ren glares up at him, favoring his side, and Hux begrudgingly remembers the blaster shot he had suffered; the stab through the shoulder with his beloved grandfather’s light saber. Hux reaches up and presses two fingers to the middle of his brow, breathing for a long few moments and trying to clear his mind.

It doesn’t work.

“Fine,” Hux says lowly, turning and grabbing Ren by the collar, forcing him backward. “I’m doing this for my own good, you useless halfwit.”

Ren inhales sharply in shock, eyes fluttering closed as Hux leans forward and presses their foreheads together. The touch is not especially required, but it has always inexplicably made it easier. He gathers Ren’s emotions – the sorrow and anger, the almost overwhelming guilt – and buries them with a temporary balm of calm.

Hux isn’t especially Force-sensitive; he cannot stop blaster shots or conjure lightening, nor can he search a sentient mind for details with little more than a whim, but he can do this, which is probably the only reason he’s going to remain in the realm of the living despite the Starkiller being reduced to space junk. In all, the Force has done no more than make his life harder by allowing him to so easily be bound to this giant child.

Hux pulls back a little under thirty seconds later, glad for his own reprieve more than anything as Ren’s mind dulls to a much more tolerable hum.  

Ren has a bemused look on his face as he reaches up to touch his own forehead. He straightens slowly, pushing clumsily off of the wall, and languidly reaches forward with his other hand into the space that Hux is hastily backing out of with a firm scowl. 

“We are to see the Supreme Leader in less than five minutes,” Hux says, straightening his coat and lifting his chin. “Do not speak of this to him.”

Ren stares, then blinks slowly and takes a long breath, “He’ll be suspicious.”

“Suspicion is not tangible proof,” Hux says, turning around and starting for the door. He needs to get out of here, needs to have the unsettling dislike simmering between them returned as soon as possible. 

Ren is quiet as they walk through the halls, reacting with only a twitch of his eyes every time a squad of troopers jogs past or an officer has the gall to glance straight at his face. It’s rude, certainly, but Hux doesn’t think it warrants the development of a new tic.

“I’m certain they believed you already ugly,” Hux says, as they step out of a lift on the command level. “No need to react like a pubescent moron.”

“The next time we meet,” Ren says, his voice low and even. “I’m not certain I'll be ready.”

Hux glances over sharply, eyes narrow for a moment. He scoffs, hiding his reaction when Ren looks across, “I hardly think she was a teenager.”

“As if you would know,” Ren mutters, dropping his shoulders and lifting his chin as they reach the door. “Phasma was little more than an outlier.”

The door opens with a quiet hiss, and Hux realizes with no little horror that he may have done something very, very stupid – Ren seems to have lost tolerance to Hux’s particular brand of succor, made obvious by this sudden languid reflection of a hardly acknowledged past. It will take little more than a single sentence for Snoke to infer something occurred; he may even see this as a sign of something more between them than spite and a forced bargain.

Hux is meant to soak up the overflow of Ren’s unstable emotion, not assist him to control it.

Ren has absently begun rubbing at his injured cheek, the newly mended skin underneath quickly turning red, “I believe – “

“Quiet,” Hux interrupts with a mutter, walking as slow as appropriately possible up to the podium. “Do not say a single, solitary word. And stop scratching.”

Ren blinks at him and closes his mouth, even letting his hand drop to his side, and this certainly the final nail in Hux’s coffin. If Snoke doesn’t catch on (unlikely), Ren is going to go absolutely mad after his mentality returns to it’s usual savage state.

Granted, Hux could simply do this for Ren every shift cycle, but in this condition he would think twice before making his crueler decisions. Neither Hux nor Snoke have room for such delicacy the First Order.

Hux turns away from Ren and has little more time than to exhale before Snoke appears before them, his size slightly less grand in the smaller command center, but no less imposing.

“I am greatly disappointed at the events that have transpired,” Snoke says as greeting, voice booming around them from every wall of the room.

Ren seems to already be loosening his mental shackles, if judging by a quiet whimper of despair crawling along the edges of Hux’s mind. At least, he hopes it was only in his mind; he resists the urge to glance sideways, and instead lift his chin in some semblance of acknowledgement to Snoke.

Hux is aware that now is the time to make excuses, to defend himself in the face of failure; however, what is there to say: ‘an old man, a traitor, and an untrained scavenger destroyed my planet-sized super weapon’? It would _certainly_ go over without punishment for mere attitude.

“Kylo Ren, I will let your final training be a punishment in itself,” Snoke continues, nodding once and then waving a hand, causing the feed to cut itself out.

Hux stares at the empty space, uncomprehending in his disbelief. He’s somewhat used to being ignored in favor of Ren, but not to this degree.

The whimpers in Ren’s mind have begun to pitch higher; the bare crack of a horrific scream breaking through and piercing into Hux’s consciousness. He grimaces, but doesn’t make a sound, shaking his head and curling up his hands at his sides. It seems his power had also somehow paradoxically weakened with disuse, if Ren can overcome it in little more than a quarter hour. Either that, or Ren has gotten much worse.

Without warning, Hux is violently thrown backward, pinned down and prone on the command walkway, and watching in frozen horror as Ren leans over him with a sparking light saber reflecting sharply into his dark eyes. Hux yells in pain as it lashes into his shoulder, slicing downward in one quick motion, and then feels his own body go limp as the saber burns through a lung and summarily reaches his heart.

Hux inhales painfully quick as the cold feeling of the floor seeps into his back and palms, realizing slow and with some desperate confusion that he’s still very much alive. He looks to Ren, who’s now standing near the door with his back turned away, and snarls, “That was uncalled for.”

“It’s your fate,” Ren says, his voice carrying easily in the oddly shaped room. “I must finish my training, like my grandfather before me.”

Hux watches him leave, then shoves himself up onto his feet, rubbing hard just above his brow in a futile attempt to relieve the pain. Ren hasn’t truly turned his power on Hux in years, purportedly not masochistic enough to endure the consequences, though he’s certainly suffering them gladly now.

Any other time, Hux would assume this was Ren being overdramatic in his attempts to be threatening, but Snoke had said nothing that favored Hux over Ren, and the phrase sounded suspiciously like premeditation. He feels with some shame as his own heart begins pounding in something like terror, and forces it down behind a slow breath as he walks toward the door, exiting into the too-bright corridor.

Snoke wouldn’t have allowed him into such a high position if he was meant to be a mere pawn in Ren’s training.

 _He would,_ a thought slinks through his mind. _What do you really do besides hold needless command over a bunch of brainwashed children? Your position is meaningless._ _A mere act._

Hux grinds his molars and turns on his heel to the bridge, carefully marching his way toward one of the few places he feels truly in control. He nods at each squad of troopers that jogs by, attempting to feel revalidated as each greets him by distinction. By the time he reaches his destination, his heart has smoothed to a more level beat, and even Ren’s constant wails of misery have dulled to a familiar, ignorable ache.

He catches Phasma speaking to an engineer in the far corner, and draws her attention with a short nod. He diverts his path to an attached observation cabin that lies at the end of a narrow hall, meant for staying watch but more commonly used for private conversations.

“Sir,” Phasma greets, stepping up next to him, voice reverberating through her helmet. “Situation handled?”

“I believe I’m about to be put to death, actually,” Hux says lowly, voicing his suspicions with his eyes fixed on the blur of rapidly passing stars. “I was wondering if you knew.”

Phasma is quiet for a long moment, then tips her head, “Why would I know?”

Hux doesn’t answer immediately, shoving Ren’s overwhelming presence to the side in attempt to catch any lie Phasma might be telling, but she seems to be completely candid. Confused, perhaps, maybe even a little trepidatious, which is no surprise considering if Hux is gone, then Ren will be in direct control of near everything.

“It has been recently revealed to me that my… circumstances were little more than designed to strengthen Kylo Ren,” Hux says, feeling a tic develop along the edge of his jaw, twitching as he speaks. “A sacrifice that has doubtlessly been planned for years.”

“Ah,” Phasma says, slowly nodding once. “How… regrettable.”

Hux is aware that it would be both unprofessional and untimely to roll his eyes, and instead glances sideways, catching his own irritated reflection in the lenses of her helmet.

Phasma shifts on her feet, the soft click of her tongue clear even through a speaker. “Sir, if I might ask, who told you this?”

“My murderer kindly showed me exactly how he would do it,” Hux mutters, reaching up and allowing himself a small moment of weakness as he runs a hand through his hair. He hasn’t had a proper wash in days, and it’s absolutely disgusting. His only comfort is that Ren is probably in worse shape, though the med-bay may have done something as his hair had appeared as glossy as ever – the utter wretch.

“Odd.”

Hux doesn’t look over, but he does listen more intently.

“If he’s managed to hide it for this long, why would he reveal it so soon to the event?” Phasma continues, tipping her head just slightly in a demonstration of thought. “He could have been using this to manipulate you for years.”

“He’s not that clever,” Hux scoffs, a grim smirk momentarily forming on his lips before he forces it away.

“I believe he is just that cruel,” Phasma says, her cape softly swishing as she resettles her feet. “If it’s not too bold of me to say.”

Hux stares at the stars for a few moments, easily recalling a number of instances where Ren had used needlessly extreme methods to gain favorable results, along with a few were Ren could easily have bartered a preordained death against him. “No, I would have to agree. It is unlike him.”

“You’re aware of certain activities of mine,” Phasma says, turning her head to look at him directly.

“I am not a faceless failure like your usual patrons,” Hux dismisses, staring determinedly forward and denying her the pleasure of seeing his expression.

“And yet, you are just as easily disposable,” Phasma says, nodding her respect – easily determinable as sarcastic –  and then turning around in one smooth movement to walk away. Her footsteps echo out into the bridge, and suddenly the general tension of the crew joins his consciousness, shoving in alongside Phasma and making his head throb in reflex. Two of them are practically sobbing behind their shells of professionalism. 

Hux exhales slowly, lifting both hands and pressing the heels of his palms into his forehead. He reaches out and snags Ren, whose loud and migraine-inducing consciousness easily drowns out the noise while Hux rolls back his concentration from Phasma and the crew. It’s a shame, really, that he hadn’t been bound to Phasma; her mind was almost disturbingly clear and calm, though that might only be by comparison.

The stars continue to fly by with little flourish, though the view is hardly as relaxing as usual. He grinds his teeth hard, ignoring the rather large part of his brain that insists he be a coward, and rationalizes that even if he did leave, somehow escaping to the Outer Rim, Ren would just as easily find him there as Hux had found him on Starkiller.

Hux exhales slowly, dropping his hands to curl at his sides, and turns on his heel toward the greater area of the bridge. Phasma is back at the head of the ship, conferring again with the same engineer, and he has a feeling that he might be angrier about that if it weren’t for the potential for his execution approaching with every passing light year.

Or, perhaps, it is all just a dramatic threat and Hux has overreacted, potentially verifying the effectiveness of some new experiment that Ren’s decided to conduct out of literally nowhere and at the very worst time. It wouldn’t be completely out of character, but usually Ren has to be at least a passing amount bored to do such a thing, and at present he seems to still be in the thralls of a vicious sulk.

Hux reaches up to rub hard at his brow, turning toward the lift bay that will lead him downwards. He’ll leave the bridge to Phasma for now, who seems to have her usual firm handle on it, and go suffer a few more hours of Ren’s misery trying to break through his skull.

The shift replacements for the troopers he sent away earlier are in place when he gets back to his quarters, both standing to attention as he approaches and signals them to move aside.

“Sir,” CL-4032 greets, gesturing at Ren’s quarters as she steps leftward. “Kylo Ren is in his rooms.”

“Yes, I know,” Hux mutters, reaching for the switch to his own.

“He’s been making a lot of noise,” CL-4032 says, hands hovering and curled up near her chest, clearly to keep from reaching out. “More than usual.”

Hux nods, resisting the urge to sigh deeply, “I assure you, he will keep it to his rooms.”

CL-4032 is silent for a moment, clearly disbelieving, “…Yes, sir,”

“Even if he doesn’t, he won’t take it out on you,” Hux says, stepping more fully into his rooms and then gesturing for both troopers to step back, which lets the door finally slide shut with a soft hiss. He sighs slowly, closing his eyes and letting his chin drop to his chest.

Even if Hux isn’t about to be killed, Snoke is doubtlessly planning something equally torturous as punishment for the destruction of a six system year project, which is something to prepare for in the coming visit. He should start gathering recovered documents and recounts of the encounter, compile a series of future –

Hux glances up from his desk, looking to the side in the direction of Ren’s quarters and wondering why something suddenly feels utterly wrong. The misery and guilt is still prevalent, but even more there’s a sense of surety, which is an emotion that Hux isn’t quite sure he’s actually ever felt coming from Ren. It’s downright unsettling.

Also, he’s moving closer, which is bad, even worse is when Hux hears the protesting of the guards coming from his now open door.

Ren stops halfway, barely into the quarters, chest visibly heaving under his robes. “I’m taking this out of his control.”

Hux raises an eyebrow in wry curiosity, leaning back on his heels and crossing his arms. “Well? I’m waiting.”

Ren is silent for a few moments, long enough that the troopers behind him start shuffling nervously. He inhales, glancing away for a scant second before looking dead-on into Hux’s eyes, gaze steely, “I’m sorry for this.”

“You’re _what_?” Hux says, his hands dropping to his sides as he begins to outright stare. He tries to say something else, maybe ask if this is a blanket apology or for something specific, but suddenly he cannot speak, jaw held tightly enough that his teeth are grinding.

“I’m sorry,” Ren repeats, lowering him down to the ground with an outstretched hand.

~

Phasma is somewhere over Hux, he knows that much, her uniform reflecting a rather sharp light into his eyes when he peeks them open. She’s silent, head tipped just slightly toward what he knows is a wide viewport, and standing at a rather uncomfortable looking parade rest.

“Captain,” Hux murmurs, lifting a hand up only to find it impossible due to a familiar set of straps. He glances down, neck pulling at the muscle in his shoulders, and realizes, at the sight of his own mostly-stripped body, something must have gone terribly wrong after Ren invaded his quarters.

He doesn’t feel particularly unwell, maybe even a little better with the pain in his head having somehow faded to a dull buzz. He cannot quite feel any… Ah. Ren must be very far away indeed.

“General, I regret to inform you that you’re being accused of treason,” Phasma says, tipping her head down at him until her lenses perfectly reflect his prostrate form, then tilting it to the side. “You’re also charged with aiding and abetting multiple fugitives, wanton destruction of valuable First Order property, and abuse of your station.”

“Wonderful,” Hux says, laying his head back onto the cot. He’s not quite sure of the fugitives in question, though perhaps they’re Poe Dameron and the scavenger girl; if Ren has left for Snoke after accusing him of such wild falsities, he’s going to kill the man himself, ancient and horrible power be damned.

“I’m also quite cross at you for forcing me talk to Snoke,” Phasma says, reaching forward and grabbing his chin to force him to look at her. “I do not appreciate your excluding me from this, Hux.”

Hux stares at her, eyes narrowing as he sifts through her irritation and mild curiosity to find sincere hurt. He tries concentrating harder, to feel for specific thoughts rather than just vague and damnable _feelings_ , but ends only developing a minor headache. He has before glimpsed images or sounds, though only ever from Ren, which likely has nothing to do with Hux’s individual abilities.

Phasma lets go of him after another tense minute, a low, frustrated hum sounding sharply from her helmet. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Hux glances toward the window as he shifts his undoubtedly bruised jaw, and inhales sharply, staring at the distantly drifting planet. It’s gaseous and green, with one visible moon, and he’s never seen it before. He looks back to Phasma,

“Kylo Ren has escaped,” Phasma says, folding her hands again behind her back and standing straight. “He took an unmarked cruiser we confiscated from a freighter and hasn’t been heard from in over thirty-six hours.”

“Escaped?” Hux repeats, frowning sharply in disbelief.

“The Supreme Leader’s words, not mine,” Phasma says, “He’s conjectured that Kylo Ren and yourself have been colluding with the New Republic and their Resistance – “

“I have done no such thing,” Hux exclaims, his arms pulling and twisting at the binds along his limbs. “Let me loose, I’ll tell the man himself. I destroyed the Hosnian system, for damned sake. The entire New Republic fleet.”

“He’s ordered your incarceration once we arrive at the Citadel,” Phasma continues, unhindered by any attempts at interruption. “After which, I’m to track Kylo Ren to whatever system he’s flown to and drag him back to complete his training.”

“So it was just a lie, then,” Hux mutters, a deeper frown forming along his lips. “Little more than a threat.”

“No, sir,” Phasma says, her voice sharp and her mind echoing some disappointment at an unspoken slight. “Snoke believes the end of circumstances similar to yours and Ren’s were what fueled Darth Vader’s rise to power.”

Hux narrows his eyes, surprised, and then slightly irritated. “You’re the one stealing Ren’s books.”

Phasma lifts her chin, absolutely unashamed and fairly proud. “I get curious.”

“No less than seven troopers have been reassigned, and another six maimed,” Hux says, disbelieving and in some reluctant awe. He has absolutely no idea how she could have hidden it, from Ren or him.

“I have no issue with that,” Phasma says, stepping toward the front of the room and reaching for a small pressure plate at the side of the wall.

The straps disconnect and slither away back into the cot, leaving him boundless and feeling oddly more exposed. He lifts his hands slowly, spinning his wrists as he sits up to look at Phasma. She has almost that same odd feeling of surety he’d felt from Ren, and he’s quickly learning to associate it with bad ideas.

“I don’t believe I approve of what you’re thinking, Captain.”

Phasma shifts her shoulders, abruptly lifting her chin and taking off her helmet. She sets it gently on a table, then turns to look him straight-on with unrepentant eyes.  “Sir, I believe it may be our time to leave.”

Hux scowls, exhaling sharply and curling his hands over his middle, “I do not have the same ease abandoning my ideologies, Phasma.”

“Are those the same ideologies that bound you to a man who has unintentionally tortured you for over a decade, and now seek to kill you for him,” Phasma says, eyes narrowing sharply and her mind a whorl of mild anger. “Were they ever truly yours if you did not choose them?”

Hux swallows back the insane notion to defend Ren, and refuses to break eye contact, “I may not have chosen them, but they serve the galaxy in order and prosperity.”

“The First Order benefits no one in this galaxy besides Snoke,” Phasma practically snaps, her intensity startling as her pale mouth forms a sharp snarl. She leans forward, towering closer to the cot, “He has you steal children, just as he stole you; he has you destroy their minds, just as he destroyed yours; and now he has you kill _billions_ , just as he will kill you.”

Hux flinches before he can stop himself, the wave of hate coming from Phasma almost as strong as Ren in his worst moments. He looks down at his hands and finds them bloody, his fingernails biting into the flesh of his palms.

“I want you to live, Hux,” Phasma says, getting in closer and reaching out, her fingers hitting the edge of the cot and curling inward. “Do you?”

Hux twists his lips up into a half-hearted attempt at a snarl, smearing his palms against the bedspread. “What if I decline?’”

“I would make it very clear to you that it is not an option,” Phasma say, raising a single eyebrow and leaning back from the cot. She forms a single fist, raising it upward. “I will knock you out, and I will not be so gentle as Kylo Ren.”

Hux looks upward through his eyelashes, reluctantly quirking his mouth in something more grimace than smirk. “Now that is certainly a line never spoken before this moment.”

“Get up,” Phasma barks, beginning to shed her armor with little fanfare, a heavy vambrace landing on the floor, and soon another behind it. “We need to be in the landing bay within thirty-seven minutes. I have allowed time for you to go to your quarters.”

“Why are you disrobing here?” Hux asks, slipping out of the cot and shuffling to the side as Phasma continues her careless abandonment until she stands in little more than her black under armor. He hasn’t seen her this unprotected in nearly six years.

“We will both be dressing in standard trooper armor until we are off the _Finalizer_ ,” Phasma says, gesturing with her chin toward a closed closet. “Inside is a set that will fit you, and I encourage you to quickly put it on and retrieve your sentimental belongings.”

Hux hovers near the closet, glancing down at the armor strewn across the floor, “Will you be leaving yours here?”

“Of course not,” Phasma answers, pushing past him and opening the closet. She pulls out a slightly larger set of two, “I had it made.”

“Well, yes,” Hux mutters, remembering with some nostalgia the first meeting they’d had after her promotion. He hadn’t been able to stonewall a single request through budget or logic, not even the specialty armor made from some material she had scavenged from an as yet undisclosed location. “I’ve always thought it a bit flashy.”

Phasma gives him a dark look from under her eyelashes as she snaps a greave across her right shin. “I doubt I will ever wear it again, but I refuse to entertain the notion that my replacement will.”

Hux bites back a retort on the unlikely ability of anyone to do so, and glances down to study his own armor. He knows every piece and its purpose, the components that are put into it and the price down to the decicredit, but this is the very first time he’s had opportunity to wear it despite his circumstances. He peeks surreptitiously over to Phasma, taking note, and begins clumsily fitting pieces to their respective matches in the same order. Every piece is correct in length if just slightly too loose at the middle, and he’s struck with an odd feeling of inferiority; he would not say he’s concerned with his lack of mass, but it has also never felt so obvious. He puts the helmet on last, blinking as the HUD shimmers to life. Phasma’s tag declares her as FN-2199.

“A bit stifling,” Hux mutters, listening to an odd, unfamiliar rasp come out through the speaker.

Phasma shrugs, bending down and gathering the pieces of her cast off armor. She stacks them neatly into a standard bag, cuirass first, and by the time she’s done it’s as if nothing had happened in the room, least of all a pact to commit high treason against a theoretically omniscient commander.

“I will meet you in Bay 4, Station 6 in twenty-five minutes,” Phasma says, her voice now a deep tenor. “Do not be late. I won’t leave, but I won’t be happy.”

“Of course,” Hux agrees, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, that is, until he remembers the helmet. It’s a rather freeing experience. He can almost understand Phasma and Ren’s insistence they spend their entire time within one. He looks down at his own white-clad legs, then his hands, “I assume my persona is off duty; I’d rather not end up late due to a scheduling error.”

“You’ve been dead for two years,” Phasma says, shouldering her bag and turning toward the door. “Twenty-four minutes.”

Hux follows her out the door and then parts ways, heading left to her right, and down toward a trooper lift bay. He keeps his head down for the first few halls, until he belatedly realizes that absolutely no one is paying attention to him. He even gets jostled trying to enter the crowded lift, and has to bite his tongue to keep from issuing a reprimand.

The halls in front of his quarters are suspiciously empty, no posted guards or investigating officers, seemingly no one concerned with the personal belongings of a man supposedly just accused of treason. He pauses at the entrance, suspicion returning for the short moment it takes for him to remember that the only reason he can think so blessedly clear is that Ren is on some dust planet pretending to be a trader to a pack of disbelieving creatures clad in tattered robes.

He swallows, gently tapping in his code, and hastily enters the sleeping quarters before the door has even fully closed behind him. He wrenches open the closet and tugs down a lockbox from the hidden corner shelf, opening it with a quick scan of a degloved thumb and relieved sigh to find it containing the only truly unique thing he owns, saved from the destruction of Starkiller by little more than fear. He shoves it behind his stun baton, hidden from sight, but close at hand, and then goes for the dresser, finding and stuffing into his trooper bag a few articles of clothing that aren’t immediately recognizable as First Order issue.

Hux slowly steps back into the lounge quarters, glancing around for anything he could hardly live without that could fit in the bag. His eye catches on the desk, and he pulls up the drawer with haste, pulling out a small, cobbled together droid. It consists of little more than a couple of inexpertly soldered chipsets and busses, but he hadn’t obtained it from the First Order. Technically, he’d stolen it, and before Hux had disabled it and put it out of sight, all he’d seen it do is beep demands to be returned to its master. He debates some before shoving it in alongside the underwear and shirts, figuring it could be useful for parts, if nothing else.

The moment Hux steps out of his quarters, he finds himself choking back a pained gasp as desolation begins bleeding from the very walls of _Finalizer_. It swells the closer he gets to the ship bay, every trooper and officer he passes practically bawling with anxiety or bleakness behind their impassive, helmeted faces. A pilot outwardly doing little more than tapping a pen against a clipboard is in fact quaking in fear, every noise around them causing it to spike.

Hux spins around sharply as his shoulder is suddenly grabbed by a tight grip, and he looks up to see Phasma, who has her head tilted to the side and is feeling so edgy that he is surprised the entire bay hasn’t already caught on to the act.

“HH-1991, our ship is prepared and waiting,” Phasma says, her voice steady as she pulls him along none-to-gently and shoves him at a waiting cargo shuttle. “We are to rendezvous with NOBLE Team and await orders.”

“Yes, alright,” Hux snaps, pulling his arm away and shooting a scowl at Phasma, the effect ruined somewhat by the two layers of armor between them. He keeps his head high as he follows her up the ramp, glancing between the corners of his goggles at the surrounding troopers. He watches as one of them drops a coil of hose, their mind full of hopelessness and their entire body visibly shaking as they drop to their knees in attempt to gather it up.

Phasma shoves him again, and he has half a mind to reach back and push her back down as soon as she steps past him to pull the shuttle ramp up.

“No reason to be so boorish,” Hux warns, securing his bag then moving up toward the pilot seats. He quickly checks the gauges himself, at the primary fuel levels and the reserves, and scanning the data-pad for inconsistencies. He finds none, which is almost worrying in itself.

The efficiency of this entire operation is quickly growing a knot of suspicion in the back of his mind.

“Your control is still poor,” Phasma says, pushing him again and then herself sitting in a copilot chair, beginning to go through the check procedure with clear practice. “Within moments of your arrival, the entire shuttle bay was uneasy. I had thought previously that your ability to control a room was simply a symptom of your rank, but it seems I was wrong.”

“Their temperament is no fault of mine,” Hux disagrees, steeling his jaw and looking out toward the clear, calm image of the gaseous planet and it’s slowly shifting eye. He takes a slow breath, grinding his molars for a short moment and trying to ignore the soft press of emotion from a hundred-odd people. He doesn’t often have to deal with this, usually simply finds Ren’s turmoil and converges, but he’s too far away to be of any use. It’s much worse now than it was in his childhood, or even any of the many other times Ren and he have been apart, and he berates himself for using a crutch – for letting himself fall out of practice.

“Calm down,” Phasma says, her voice still in that same slow and even tone. She doesn’t look to him, busy feeding coordinates into the controls, but he can feel her familiar confidence crawling in between the anxiety. “I need you to believe this will work, just until I get us into hyperspace.”

Hux watches her fingers a few minutes longer, then lets his shoulders drop and tries his best to trust, looking out the open door. He clenches his jaw as the thrusters activate, lifting the shuttle up and moving forward out into open space. The edge of the blast door soon fades from his peripheral vision, and suddenly it’s as if a weight has been lifted from him; he cannot be sure if it was the of blanket of strange emotion or of his imminent death, but it’s gone.

He reaches up and unlatches his helmet, throwing it to the seat behind him and taking a deep breath, leaning into the chair. He scrubs his hair for a moment, wipes the sweat from his brow, and wonders how long he has before he hears of the First Order looking for him.

“You aren’t aware of it,” Phasma says, but when he looks over, she’s still seems to be concentrated on the controls.

“Aware of?” Hux prompts, growing irritated with the half threats and odd accusations.

Phasma shakes her head slowly, head tilting enough that he catches his reflection in the lens of her helmet. “Your mind is like a disease.”

Hux frowns, narrowing his eyes and grasping to measure how much offense was meant, but all he can find is her disbelief.

“I had assumed your Force ability was borderline-null, rather than unpolished,” Phasma continues, leaning back in her copilot’s chair to easier gesture at Hux’s head. “But you can truly infect others with emotion as if it were their own. It actually makes a lot of strategic sense.”

“Would you please desist describing it like that?” Hux mutters, sending her a disgusted look as he stands to go in the back, beginning to remove the unfamiliar armor. He quickly shifts his other defense from the trooper pouch to between his belt and waistband, hastily covering it with his shirt. “I’m capable of no such thing. If you’d like, I can recount the exact nature of Supreme Leader Snoke’s disappointment when he realized it.”

“I have seen you incite an entire army to roar with something they have no belief in,” Phasma says, her voice taking on an odd, almost agitated note. She is increasingly bordering on outright disturbed. “Or convince Kylo Ren to back off like the flick of a switch.”

“I can exploit a mob as well as anyone, Phasma,” Hux says, rejecting the weak assertion with little thought.

Ren was a different matter altogether, as it was merely a game of knowing the spikes of his moods and how to trigger them, disregarding the most recent weakness on Hux’s part. He won’t outright say he cannot control Ren, because he theoretically could and simply doesn’t, but Phasma would take that as clear admittance.

“I should hope the closer we get to Kylo Ren, the sooner you stop scattering unsolicited feeling,” Phasma says, snubbing his dismissal and turning back toward the controls. “Do you know where he is?”

Hux pauses heaving off his cuirass to stare at her back, swallowing a derisive laugh. “How should I know?”

“I was under the impression it was another talent,” Phasma says, her tone a clear reprimand and a reflection of her irritation. She enters hyperspace with an easy flick of her fingers, then turns around in her chair with a pointed tilt of her head.  

“A single planet cannot be compared to the entire galaxy,” Hux says, scoffing under his breath.  His suspicion is rapidly solidifying into fact, and he wonders how long he will have before Phasma reveals her true orders. He doesn’t believe the Order has built personnel weapons capable of taking Ren alive, but perhaps Phasma has something else up her sleeve.

He turns around, stalling for time as he packs away the armor, and glances down at the cargo crates, wondering what she could have inside. He’ll resign to playing along now, as he’s currently trapped for the time being; if she was any other trooper, he could easily handle it, but Phasma is an entirely different sort of soldier. He may even need Ren, which is vexing.   

Of course, assuming Hux can find Ren at all. He exhales slowly, some earlier notion resurfacing, but it’s nearly gone. All he remembers is dust and… And an oddly spoken race he cannot recognize. It’s no use, there are far too many desert planets for him to simply choose one on a whim.

“Perhaps a region,” Phasma says, her voice breaking through his thoughts and her demeanor decidedly impatient.

“I cannot imagine we have enough fuel to fly wherever I happen to feel,” Hux says, raising an eyebrow and glancing pointedly past her. “Or that wherever we should go would just allow a First Order ship to land, especially after recent circumstances.”

“Another ship is waiting,” Phasma says, her voice so dry that Hux knows if he could see through her helmet, she’d be rolling her eyes. “This was not spur of the moment, General. I’m almost insulted at the implication.”

Hux narrows his eyes sharply, tipping his head to the side in encouragement for her to continue.

“The ship is in Javin,” Phasma explains, spreading her hands slightly. “An aging freighter that I traded from a conspirator.”

“Traded what, exactly?”

“Her life,” Phasma says, in an easy tone, her mind betraying no threat despite the words’ capability to hold one.

The story seems to be true, or at least Phasma believes it to be, which reduces just slightly the chances that this is all an elaborate trap. He begrudgingly relaxes, lifting a hand to tap at his chin as he begins to think.

“The engineer you were speaking to,” Hux says, glancing upward sharply at the epiphany. “I didn’t recognize her.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Phasma says, apparently rather proud of herself despite the treasonous circumstances. “She snuck aboard during the firefight at Starkiller.”

“I should have noticed that,” Hux mutters, sharply biting at the inside of his lip. “That was days ago.”

Phasma finally takes off her helmet, shaking her head in disagreement; her indifference is almost more frustrating than his shortcoming.  “You had a considerable amount on your mind, in more ways than one. I cannot imagine Kylo Ren was easy to handle while confined in the bacta tanks.”

“Certainly not,” Hux agrees, feeling phantom roars of pain spike sharply between his temples. It had not been at its worse until after, once everything that happened had sunk in, but that hadn’t exactly made it easier.

It occurs to him, as little more than a stray thought: Tatooine. He knows nothing of it than of the neighboring, and more familiar, Arkanis, but Ren is there, if for no more reason than to disappear. Perhaps, he is trying to contact the Hutts, who are no friends of the First Order. From the indistinct images, he seems to be doing no more than getting angry at traders for perceived slights, which is par for the course.

Hux glances over at Phasma again, shrugging slightly and gently snapping the joints at his wrists as he folds his hands together. “I will try to better determine his location before we arrive in Javin.”

Phasma lifts a single pale brow, a small smirk forming on her lips. “Of course, General.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "General," Ren says, glancing up with a forcefully casual look at Hux, then past him to Phasma, before slouching back into his booth. "I underestimated your resourcefulness." 
> 
> "As ever is your mistake," Hux snaps, awkwardly sweeping his jacket aside and slipping into the opposing seat. “You look like a fool.”
> 
> Ren huffs something unintelligible, but Hux doesn't need words to recognize the insult.

Hux has never endeavored to be any manner of ambassador. He was trained to control every aspect of his life and of the First Order, and as such his skin crawls at the very idea of negotiation. The aversion is even stronger on New Republic systems, and he has to keep from sneering outright when a towering station manager approaches and attempts to extort them at the very minute the shuttle lands.

Phasma doesn’t seem to have the same problem, ever the pragmatist. She merely stands at her very tallest and argues in some tongue he doesn’t know with a trader who is getting very angry indeed, the three-meter-tall creature spiking with desperation after ten minutes of attempting to force her to take the shuttle to a different bay.

“He’ll take it along with a quarter of the fuel, in addition to stripping it for parts,” Phasma translates, nodding over to the creature with a falsely pleasant smile that radiates like ice. “He’ll have the remaining siphoned to the ship we’re here for.”

“That is absolutely mad, he could buy enough fuel for fifty ships if he –“

“We need to leave,” Phasma interrupts sharply, sending him an unamused look as she throws her bag over a shoulder. “What shall I call you? And try to grow out a beard, if you’re capable.”

Hux frowns, reaching up and running the back of his fingers under his chin. He’s never had more than a day’s worth of stubble in his entire life, but he imagines it’s possible. Conversely, his mind outright balks at the idea of another name. “There’s more than one Hux.”

“Unless you’d like me to negotiate use of a dermal manipulator, you’ll come up with a new name,” Phasma threatens, turning on her heel and gesturing sideways at Hux’s bag. “Grab your effects and a blaster from the cargo. We should leave within the hour.”

Hux glares after her, anger sparking under his skin as he swallows the urge to snap reprimands for insubordination. He’s aware that his life is on the line, suspects it is in more ways than one, and that his position is largely null at the point, but he would still appreciate being included in the strategy. As of late, entirely too much of his life has been out of his control.

He breathes slowly for about half a minute and then grabs his bag, patting himself down to check that everything is still hidden and in place, then follows down the ramp to find Phasma waiting at a far docking bay and practically radiating irritation. The station manager is of a similar disposition, glaring from the edge of their platform and clutching a rusty radio in a white-knuckled claw.

“Concentrate,” Phasma mutters, sotto voce and gesturing with her chin for them to head down an empty alleyway that leads toward the greater city. “Did Supreme Leader teach you nothing?”

“He stripped me of apprenticeship when I was seven for the opposite of your accusation,” Hux says, keeping his voice low and sharp. “I’m sure you remember, as it is how we met.”

Phasma narrows her eyes, then scoffs under her breath. “Perhaps your power grew without his notice.”

“Or mine?” Hux says, rolling his eyes and shaking his head to disguise the way he turns away from a pair of twi-lek. They’re staring him up and down without any care for tact, both radiating a mixture of curiosity and ill-intent. He scrapes his teeth slowly along his lower lip, shifting his hand a little closer to the blaster at his side.

Phasma nudges him toward a small shop, sporting a bright sign advertising cheap clothing for all races, and lowers her head just slightly as she crowds in near his shoulder. Her wry amusement is palpable. “They do not recognize you.”

“How can you be sure?” Hux mutters, glancing slightly to the left when the pair trails behind with no subtlety. 

“Your hair is what interests them,” Phasma says, gesturing at his head with a lowly held hand.

Hux reaches up without really thinking to run a hand through his it, finding it to be untangled and soft. He hadn’t exactly had time to wax it after he woke, but is rather thankful that med-bay had cleaned it up, even though he’s certain he looks like an unkempt child. Regardless, he imagines she’s referring to the pigment rather than the state of it. “How delightful.”

“If I were smarter, I’d sell you,” Phasma continues, a hand curling around one of his shoulders as she guides him toward a rack of clearly second-hand clothing. “One of the Hutts has a standing bounty of 100,000 credits.”

Hux is quite certain a bounty on him as an individual could be much higher, but plays along, “Of course they do.”

Phasma hums low, hand squeezing faintly harder before she lets go with a breezy, and frankly disturbing, laugh breaking apart her words. “But I might be able to get 115,000 for you if I can convince them that you’d fill out their uniform.”

Hux has admittedly never seen a human Hutt slave, but he’d hesitate to call what he’d heard rumor about a uniform. He glances at the twi-leks again, glaring at them sharply through the windowed display. They stare back at him, visibly caught for a long few moments before becoming suitably cowed, heads going down as they shuffle away and out of sight.

“Then suffer the stares,” Phasma says, tipping her head with a sharp smirk. She quickly grabs a few articles of clothing before Hux has even moved, and then pauses just before she heads into the back to give him a mocking stare. “Perhaps, if we’re lucky, no one will try anything until we reach Kylo Ren.”

“I am not some sort of damsel,” Hux mutters, exhaling sharply and turning around to peruse the assortment of torn and derelict clothing. He can barely stand to look at most of the collection, but finds himself stroking at the shoulders of jacket that looks both made for humans and around his size. It’s a pleasantly dark leather, from some animal he’s sure he doesn’t want to know, and feels comfortingly stiff despite the near-perfect fit. It even has a set of stripes, though it’s a series of three on his shoulder. He wonders absently if a moff would have sported something similar, should Snoke have permitted such a rank in the Order.

Phasma clicks her tongue, and he looks over to find her standing in to doorway of the dressing closet wearing a pair of light trousers and a blue jacket with sleeves that go barely past her elbows. Her eyes bore into him with something that is undeniably frustration.

Hux scowls back as he blindly snatches a random pair of dark trousers, and then moves to push past her. She blocks his path with an outstretched arm as she reaches out with her free hand to seize a lighter, downright sand colored, pair off of a high shelf, and holds them out in clear suggestion.

“Move aside,” Hux says, narrowing his eyes with disgust at both the color and the mysterious tear at the thigh.

“It is not a disguise if you wear nearly the same uniform, you imbecile,” Phasma says, trying to make him take the trousers through sheer power of will. “I’ll allow the jacket, since you’re very clearly already attached.”

Hux glares, scoffing under his breath, “I do not care for being needlessly ordered around.”

“And I do not care for being caught less than ten hours after we have left,” Phasma hisses back, pulling the dark trousers from his hands and throwing them blindly to the side – much to the disgruntlement of the shop keeper, who titters under their breath.

The argument is frustratingly sound, and Hux purses his mouth tightly as he gives in, grabbing the clothing from her hand and then ducking under her arm, grinding his teeth in badly held frustration. The changing room is equipped with a mockery of a mirror, cracked and stained, but he can see enough to know that he stands out more in such pale, mismatched clothing, and that it perhaps makes his evidently unique hair even more obvious.

He growls under his breath and then gathers his weapons, hiding them in the deep pockets, particularly the rarer of the two, which he wraps in a dark handkerchief that someone had left in the corner of the mirror. The blaster fits perfectly in an oddly convenient thigh holster, and he realizes with some discomfort that he’s now no better than the criminal that originally owned these trousers. He wonders if they’re dead, and hopes it’s the case. 

Phasma is up front and bartering by the time he emerges from the back, and he sidles up next to her just as she slaps the counter hard. The shop keeper immediately silences with a sharp inhale, mind filling with with a mix of frustration and fear as they timidly hold their ground against her demands.  

“These are dirty. I need fifteen credits for – “

“You will take our pristine clothing in payment for these rags, and be thankful for it,” Hux interrupts, frustration getting the best of him as he steps in front of Phasma to stare down the shopkeeper. The selection in this place is abysmal, and Phasma and he are downright doing the place a favor.

The shopkeeper gapes back up at him for a quiet, tense moment, then gruffly nod as they pull the pile of clothing off the counter and into their chest, radiating gratefulness. “Of course, sir. Thank you for your patronage.”

Hux acknowledges the agreement with a tilt of his head, then turns on his heel and walks right out, not bothering to wait for a markedly annoyed Phasma as he shoves through the slow moving throng of Javin residents. He feels her catch up to him easily just as he re-enters the main station bay, where the crowd is markedly thicker and effectively stalls him.  

“I look like a fool,” Hux says, breaking his silence as they near a mass of parked ships, if nothing more than to distract him from the berating emotions of fellow travelers.

Phasma glances at him sideways, raising an eyebrow, “Have you ever worn anything other than the uniform?”

“Of course not,” Hux scoffs, lifting his chin and looking forward to avoid even peripheral sight of his current attire. “Not even that I remember from before.”

“You have memory of before?” Phasma asks, and for once her tone perfectly reflects her inward disbelief.

Hux swallows tightly and feels his hands curl at his sides. He must truly be preoccupied to forget such an ingrained custom as to never, ever mention _before_.  “Fuzzily, but it isn’t relevant.”

Phasma sighs softly, her wistfulness brushing up against his troubled thoughts. “I have none.”

“I assure you, I wish I was in the same situation,” Hux says, nearly running into her when she abruptly steps in front of a dusty freighter. He glances up at it in doubt, then over at her, “Is this it?”

“I believe so,” Phasma says, gesturing upward with a pointed finger at a large swath of missing paint down the side of the freighter. “A blue and white VCX-class with a large, but merely cosmetic gash down the side that intersects the 350 model number.”

“It isn’t an uncommon ship,” Hux says, shuffling sideways to inspect the thrusters, though admittedly he knows less about them than he probably should, and is mostly just checking for cracks and scuffs. Corellian engineering is known for longevity, but he has a hard time trusting anything that he hasn’t seen himself.

Phasma hums lowly and pulls out something that is clearly a key from a pouch in her trooper bag, pressing her thumb against the scanner. A few seconds pass by before the freighter reacts, the boundary lights illuminating in a pleasantly soft white.

Hux flinches slightly as a loud snap sounds across the entire bay, many travelers, including him, falling silent as a large screen appears over their heads. On display is a small being with beady eyes atop tall stalks, who coughs once into a three fingered hand before looking down at a data pad.

“ ** _The remains of a destroyed Imperial-class ship have been – Oh, it was bigger? Ah… The remains of an unusually large Imperial-class ship have been found in the Endor System, please plan your detours and delays accordingly_** ,” the announcer declares in Basic, then Huttese, before repeating the message a second time, then a third.

Hux feels his mouth drop open, truly speechless as he glances over to find Phasma clicking her tongue while checking the time on a displayed clock. He can barely comprehend it, aside from the small detail that this might be a sign she wasn’t ordered to manipulate him into finding Ren. Unless, of course, _Finalizer_ being a project of his made it that much more expendable for the cause.

“An alarm went out with ample time for evacuation,” Phasma says, catching his eyes with a quick look, sharply curious at his disbelief. “We needed to cover our tracks.”

Hux reaches up, pressing his fingers into his forehead, and looks down at the ground for a long, terrible moment. He takes a short breath, speaking to the dirt, “You blew up my ship.”

“Ah,” Phasma mutters, her realization tinged with amusement. “If you’d like, I can let you pretend to be in charge of this one.”

“I built it from the ground up,” Hux mutters faintly, letting himself be guided into the now-open door of the freighter. “I fought for months to design it personally.”

Phasma does little more than hum, showing Hux through a narrow corridor and into a co-pilot’s seat. She shoves the key into the authentication slot without comment, casually plucking at controls with about half as much care as she’d shown on the cargo shuttle. The thrusters start up a few minutes later, lifting them toward the misty sky just as a controller barks something through the speaker about prohibited take-off. Phasma ignores the squawking as she guides the ship around a pair of large towers and up into the atmosphere, waiting until they’re into open space before turning to Hux with clear intent to ask questions.

Hux sighs heavily, blinking up at the flickering lights of the control cabin and answering before she even opens her mouth. “Tatooine. I believe it’s in the Arkanis sector.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Hux says, quirking his mouth sideways as he attempts to gather the smattering of images and sounds into a real picture. He looks down, deciding to mourn for his ship later, and joins Phasma in calibrating the hyper-drive for the fairly simple jump. “Stupid of him to go so close to such significant systems, really. Typical Ren.”

Phasma hums, curiosity and interest piquing, “I’ve wondered why you call him Ren for some time, when his designation is Kylo.”

Hux huffs, turning back to finish his part with a small tap against a lit button. He probably should avoid outright telling her the specifics, even despite the decree no longer applying, but the specifics aren’t exactly the reason he does it. “It irritates him.”

“Of course,” Phasma mutters, amusement mixing with disappointment as she scoffs, “I’m not sure why I expected more to it.”

~

Tatooine is so damnably arid that Hux could swear his skin cracks the moment he steps off the freighter. He almost wants to change his story, to turn around and tell Phasma to head to Coruscant, where he’s never been, but suddenly wants to see. He has heard it is full of pollution and purposeless opulence, but even suffering that would be better than this place.

“You know where he is now,” Phasma says, glancing sideways at him as she closes and locks the freighter access.

“He’s in a bloody noisy bar, of all places,” Hux mutters, turning left the moment he steps out into the main city, heading for the familiar rumble of guilt and anger.

The very nature of the connection is somehow stronger. He finds far it easier now to define images and sounds through Ren than he had ever been able to, and he knows it wasn’t the distance, as this is hardly the first time they’ve been parted since Snoke had bonded them. He nearly runs into a Rodian in his distraction, who tries to delay him with petty insults, but he ignores them, managing to slip past without actually acknowledging the incident.

Phasma is an ember of curiosity as she follows, easily keeping up with his quick strides.

Hux is not thinking about the potential consequences as he marches into a bar occupied largely by criminals. He only concentrates on his anger, on how he's been stuck in a small ship for three days, and on how Ren had so easily abandoned the First Order on some mad quest to a planet with two suns. They weren't friendly or anything even remotely similar, he has no illusions there, but they were something regardless of the source – Hux had deserved a warning, at the very least.

He glances around, knowing exactly where Ren is sitting but not quite believing it. The booth that his mind is insisting holds Ren instead contains a man in tattered black rags, sporting such ridiculous hair that it makes him look like he has a mane atop his head. Thankfully, it’s only achieved through a pair of thick, messy plaits at the sides, forcing the middle upward; one of the very few better qualities of Ren is his unnaturally robust hair, and the loss of it would’ve been substantial had he instead shaven it. 

"General," Ren says, glancing up with a forcefully casual look at Hux, then past him to Phasma, before slouching back into his booth. "I underestimated your resourcefulness."

"As ever is your mistake," Hux snaps, awkwardly sweeping his jacket aside and slipping into the opposing seat. “You look like a fool.”

Ren huffs something unintelligible, but Hux doesn't need words to recognize the insult.

Hux sneers back at him for a short moment, crossing his arms over the table and leaning forward. He lowers his voice, glancing sideways as Phasma neglects to follow, “You’re somehow changed. Your mind is not so consumed with wallowing.”

Ren glances upward, his emotion abruptly returning to the struggle that Hux is accustomed to; a screaming torrent of anger, misery, and guilt. “I did as I was commanded. All it did was make me weaker.”

“You were also shot in the side by what was essentially a rocket,” Hux says, trying to subtly press fingers to his forehead in attempt to sooth the sudden ache. He almost regrets provoking Ren. Almost. “You’ve not let that fester, I gather.”

“I am not that much of a moron,” Ren says, stretching oddly to the side as if to prove his mobility.

Hux glances at the swathe of tissue crawling up over Ren’s cheek. “The scar bodes otherwise.”

“It betters the disguise,” Ren says, a weak excuse for his odd brand of vanity. His temper is already receding, leveling out into a dull, almost quiet roar as he seems to concentrate on something else. “Fewer who knew me as a child will recognize me.”

“You’ve been here as a child,” Hux says, slightly surprised and humming shortly in consideration. He drops his hand to the table, “Would that mean there something to find?”

Ren shrugs casually, but his mind is a hasty rush of embarrassment and another flash of those small traders.

Hux scoffs lowly, disappointed, “You are just hiding here.”

“I didn’t expect you to follow me,” Ren snaps, hand curling over the table and crumpling a stray mug. As much as he truthfully didn’t anticipate it, neither is he unhappy about it; an undercurrent of relief slinks amongst the affronted sentiment.

“Quite honestly, I hadn’t planned on it,” Hux says, scanning around the musty bar and at its disgusting inhabitants. “Snoke wants me dead one way or another, and for that I blame you wholeheartedly.”

“I only foresaw your death through me,” Ren says, glancing to the side as his jaw visibly tightens; he thinks Hux is somehow lying.

“Your assumed view of the future is far too narrow,” Hux says, looking over toward where Phasma seems to be discussing something with the bartender. He cannot determine her motivations aside from an imprudent attempt to give privacy. “I had believed being called up to work alongside you was something of a forgiveness for my past inadequacies, but it seems he just saw me as a temporary tool.”

“You came with Phasma,” Ren says, eyes narrowing just slightly as he utters the non sequitur. Phasma suddenly jerks awkwardly into the edge of the bar, nearly upending a drink as she looks quickly downward and then in their direction. “She orchestrated it.”

Hux nods slowly, turning back to Ren with a tense frown and purposely bringing his earlier suspicion to the forefront of his mind for Ren to easier scrutinize.

“She is far too shrewd,” Ren mutters, fingers tapping against the table top. “Hardly trustworthy.”

Hux leans back into the booth, looking away from Phasma just as she sends an irritated sneer their way. “Destroying the ship would matter little to Snoke if the result was your return.”

“Exactly,” Ren mutters, lips barely moving as he gently turns his head toward the window. “I should kill her.”

Hux knows Ren is just as averse to losing Phasma as he, but he also knows that Phasma is rather a devotee of sticking to the winning side in any case. He has his own suspicions of her role in the destruction of Starkiller in particular, her survival alone a rather large marker.

He clicks his tongue, smirking faintly and tipping his head as he forms a mocking response. “And here I thought this was you switching between the sides of your mystical religious nonsense.”

Ren scoffs, and his guilt rises once more, though without the usual anger to accompany it. “If you had been born in the same place I was, it’d be a yours, too.”

“I do doubt that, though I may have been spared this conversation,” Hux says, acknowledging the idea with a wistful look toward the sky, twin suns beating down just outside the narrow slip of window. The biting cold of deep space seems a rather attractive destination compared to this literal hell of a planet – how does any life survive at all with two suns? At this rate, even his jacket is going to dry out, the long-dead hide cracking alongside his own prickling skin.

It occurs to him suddenly that it probably won’t be long now before the Knights catch up, if Phasma is in fact using them. If he’s lucky, Snoke will come himself, and Hux will be able to disappoint him a final time.

“Snoke is weak compared to even Organa, you needn’t worry about him,” Ren says, mouth forming a tired snarl as he glances over, making eye contact as he shares an image of an almost unrecognizable Snoke retreating from an equally unfamiliar room. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have conscripted me.”

“Organa?” Hux repeats, though he’s soon rather ashamed at his own disbelief. Her power should have been prior assumed, considering he’s been suffering the evidence for years.

Ren’s emotions twist into a parody of nostalgia, “Her abilities are not unlike yours. She could be… comforting, when she allowed room for it.”

“Snoke knew,” Hux says, feeling something settle, though not necessarily easily, as one of the greater questions of his life finally answered. “It’s why he called me back after he acquired you.”

“Yes,” Ren says, the corner of his mouth going up as his mind fills with something almost like gratification. “Your ability helped you to sooth your subordinates at the abrupt climb in rank, also similar. I’m sure he knew that, too.”

Hux gives him a sharp look, grinding his molars for a short moment. He earned his rank, for whatever Ren might think, and he makes effort to disregard his offense. “I would have been an altogether terrible trooper.”

“You’re also different,” Ren says, turning Hux’s earlier words against him with a curious tilt of his head.” What happened to that thirst for power?”

“Imminent death,” Hux replies dryly, rolling his eyes. “I can find power other places.”

“Have you finally noticed?” Ren says, raising his eyebrows and eyes going just slightly wide.

It takes a moment, but after being practically accosted with it at every turn from Phasma, Hux has a very good idea of what Ren’s suddenly interested in. “Oh, not this.”

“I felt it when you walked in, your power has grown so much just recently,” Ren says, feeling an odd mix of excitement and misery; his voice taking on a lower, melodramatic tone. “You could have this entire room in chaos, angry at nothing with no idea the origin.”

“As could you,” Hux responds, narrowing his eyes back and trying not to feel uneasy.

“This isn’t about me,” Ren snaps back, his teeth bared for a short flinching moment. “It wouldn’t be the same. I’d merely be using them like puppets.”

Hux scowls back, shifting in the booth and contemplating leaving it completely, then pausing as he feels an overwhelming wave of ill-intent flood in from somewhere at the bar. At first, he thinks it’s Phasma, finally having grown so aggravated with being kept from their company that she’s lost her even temper, but when he looks over, he sees her staring at a neon-filled glass and feeling no more than resigned irritation.

The sentiment seems to be coming from an unusually seedy Togruta, who is staring at him with little subtlety. They tilt their head, a salacious smirk crossing their lips as they make eye contact with Hux.

“You should have dyed your hair,” Ren mutters, his voice oddly sharp and mind echoing an unrecognizable feeling behind it. The emotion could almost be described as anger, but Hux has felt more than enough of that from Ren to know the subtleties.

Hux watches with some reluctant amusement as the Togruta crashes to the ground, clutching both their knees and screaming in pain. He stares for another few moments then pastes on a scowl, as pointless a gesture for a man who can see inside his head it is, and turns to Ren with a sharp look. “I can handle myself.”

“This is easier,” Ren says, and his fingers flick oddly, causing the screams from the Togruta to silence.

Hux hums his agreement, only to sigh softly when Ren continue to exude that smug superiority. “Say it.”

“The Hutt that controls this planet has an affection for bipeds in little clothing, particularly the sort that look a bit like you,” Ren says, honest amusement coloring his expression and his mind, which is so unfamiliar that Hux nearly smirks along with him, “They see the long-dead Jabba as a sort of ill-advised role-model.”

Hux clicks his tongue, resisting the urge to voice the obvious parallel sitting in front of him. “Phasma did say I was worth upwards of 100,000 credits to a Hutt, though she didn’t mention the system.”

“You could easily fetch more,” Ren says, narrowing his eyes sharply as he feels some peculiar sort of offense. “Disregarding that, I’ve gotten everything I need just by asking for it; I’m sure you could do the same.”

Hux grinds his teeth again, growing more and more cross with this being continually brought up without cause. He’s not an absolute imbecile, and would have noticed his own abilities – at the very least, he would have been invited to more of Ren and Snoke’s private training sessions.

Ren leans in on the table, tilting his head and causing what little that’s free of his hair to fall half over his face. “Has anyone ever said no to you? I’m curious.”

“Other than you?” Hux asks, propping his head up into a hand in a charade of thought.  “Phasma. Snoke. Unamo, once.”

Ren gives him a frustrated look, irritated at the question being taken without the proper _gravitas_. He seems to think Hux is hiding something between the various images of Hux menacing people, which is ridiculous.

“People fear me for my rank and my reputation,” Hux says, when the silence across the table lingers. “It has nothing to do with mystical power.”

“I cannot believe you’d continue to deny it,” Ren says, his voice a loud enough bark that two of the neighboring tables glance over in curiosity. “Even I’ve found it difficult to say no.”

Hux stares at him for a long moment, trying to keep his mind blank and his eyes from going wide. He’s certainly never seen evidence of this accusation – more than a few troopers and officers would say the same.

“It’s as if I don’t want to act at times, despite knowing I very much do, just because you tell me not to,” Ren says, chest heaving and eyes narrowing somewhere at the center of the table as his anger rises with his sound of voice, now practically bellowing. “It is _infuriating_.”

“Stop your yelling,” Hux says, hand stretching forward before he can quite think about it and grabbing Ren’s unkempt chin, forcing him to look up. Hux could easily sweep aside the anger just as he had done on the _Finalizer_ , but Ren isn’t in a rage, merely being a difficult child. Instead, he digs his thumb into the side of Ren’s cheek, feeling muscle twitch under his skin, “I’d rather not die at the hands of little more than bad-tempered beasts because you chose an outlaw planet as refuge.”

“No one on this planet is as strong as me,” Ren growls, tone stiff as he struggles to move his jaw. He’s clearly irritated at the physicality, but considerably less than the last time this happened in public, which ended in a half destroyed console and a replaced navigation officer.

“Then merely check your temper,” Hux snaps, letting him go and shifting back into the booth. He gestures toward the bar without breaking eye contact, “You’ve had more than enough time to determine if Phasma is trustworthy, so let her go or have her join that flesh hunter.”

Ren’s cheeks twitch, and he glances to the side at Phasma. “She is a traitor, though not so personally. Her intentions are rather loud about the Resistance.”

“About what – At joining them?” Hux asks, stuttering out a scoffing laugh with no little disbelief. “How delusional. They’d sooner contemplate whether to shoot her on sight or in front of a firing squad.”

“News of our defection has surely already reached them,” Ren says, glancing sideways at him with tic working away at his jaw, misery and regret roiling like a wave. “There is even a rumor they’re welcoming any of the remains of the _Finalizer_ that wish to defect, so they’ll easily realize its destruction was meant to cover it up.”

“Surely even Organa cannot be so forgiving?” Hux says, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Ren breathes for a few moments, giving off such an overwhelming wave of sorrow that Hux is sure the answer will be a denial, but instead he slowly nods. “She’s pragmatic.”

Hux shakes his head, glancing out at the bar and Phasma before tilting his head sideways with a grim smirk, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather wither to dust on this hellish desert planet than join a band of hopeful morons after a lifetime of trying to kill them. Phasma can do what she likes.”

Ren tilts his head, then actually scoffs in something that’s not the usual mild spite. “During the Galactic Civil War, the Rebellion allowed practically anyone with an ounce of competence become a general. I’m sure it’s no different now.”

Hux narrows his eyes, pressing his mouth into a frown. He’s not particularly eager to entertain this unfamiliar display of humor, and never will if it’s going to be at the implication of joining the Resistance.

He inhales as he suddenly feels physically creeping tendrils surround his head. It isn’t an unfamiliar sensation, in a way, but he hasn’t had to suffer such an irritating attempt to ruin his composure in a very long while. He grits his teeth in expectation, refusing to allow Ren the satisfaction of a flinch as his hair is swept to the back and then forward by an invisible hand. He slowly raises his eyes, glaring upward at a few of the longer locks that now obstruct his field of vision.

He wouldn’t deny a few weak moments where he’d imagined Ren not being a walking fount of wretchedness and anger, usually when Ren was halfway across the galaxy and he could actually think such things, but this had not been what he envisioned. He had mostly assumed Ren would be the same, if a little more even-tempered: fewer making up excuses for expenses on reports, fewer mangled prisoners, and fewer disregarded orders. It hadn’t occurred to Hux that Ren would simply be more like who he was when he’d first come under Snoke’s tutelage.

“Such an odd gust of wind,” Ren says, a startlingly good imitation of blameless for a man that is so clearly lying.

“Surely,” Hux snaps, trying to reorganize his hair into something less ratty, much to no avail. He was outside for less than ten minutes, and yet his scalp feels coated in sand.

“You should wear a helmet,” Ren says, his eyes following Hux’s hands without an ounce of shame. “Neither the sand nor the wind could effect it.”

Hux glances up with a scowl, letting his hands drop back to the table. “I hate you.”

“I know,” Ren says, despite wearing an expression that could easily be described as a leer.

If judging by the large glass abruptly slamming down in the middle of the table, Ren seems to have released Phasma as some sort of deterrence against payback, and her irritation manages to peek through the usual iron curtain of awareness of held firmly in place by Ren. She is also an odd tinge of delighted, but Hux is going to ignore that if just for his own tenuous grasp on reality. It was almost better when he believed she was going to try to kill him, at least then he could pretend her motives were sensible.

Phasma crosses her arms, glancing down with her eyes flickering between them, “If you two are done torturing everyone around you, I’d like to go back to the ship. Hux has been hiding something, and I’m interested to find out what it is.”

Hux glares at her sharply, holding her unapologetic eyes even as he begins to stand. He looks away when Ren doesn’t move, “Get up, I refuse to dally here any longer.”

“I cannot see what you’re hiding,” Ren says, brow furrowed just slightly in frustration as his mouth falls into a petulant frown.

“I’ve hidden it from you for quite some time, don’t have a crisis,” Hux says with a dry scoff, reaching downward and pulling, with little true effort, at the ratty fabric along Ren’s shoulder. “Now go tell that frightful bartender you paid for all these drinks.”

“I already did that,” Ren says, rising easily despite the momentary reticence. He’s oddly hesitant suddenly, mentally balking at the idea of leaving the bar.

Hux frowns, then looks downward curiously, glancing over the unfamiliar boots and uneven linen trousers; the shirt fabric is even disconnected along his ribcage, separating and then settling back together as he straightens, even giving a peak of the healing scar spread across his side. Hux glances up to purposely make eye-contact, “Did you literally steal someone’s curtains?”

“What are you hiding?” Ren says, ignoring the question and staring harder, his eyes taking a rather familiar glint to them as he leans forward.

Hux winces as he feels a more invasive than usual presence into his mind, and forcibly shoves it out. His mouth falls into a scowl and he looks over sharply to Ren, “Keep that up.”

Ren loses some of his intensity, a soft grimace pulling at his mouth in disappointment. “Is it that droid? I don’t need it back.”

“No, of course not,” Hux says, huffing softly as he walks around a pair of drunkards arguing over some sort of hologame. “If it were that, I wouldn’t be hiding it.”

“I don’t know about the droid,” Phasma says, feeling cross and almost scolding.

Hux glances over to her with a sarcastic smirk, “It’s useless, all it does is whine for him.”

“It was going to be an infiltrator droid,” Ren mutters, reaching up to pull a coil of linen from around his neck to over his nose as they step outside. “If only you’d stolen it a few days later.”

“Yes,” Hux says, keeping his voice low and sarcastic. “Then you could’ve witnessed how thrilling it could get in my quarters.”

Moments later, an unexpected flush of embarrassment swells around Hux, and as he glances sideways to watch Ren look stubbornly forward, he’s honestly unsure of how to react. He is used to countering anger with anger, but what is he supposed to do now? The awkwardness seems to get worse the longer he thinks about it, joined now with guilt and some amount of sadness, so Hux just decides to ignore it, before he can do something like respond in kind.

Phasma belatedly hums agreement, her temperament dry and inexplicably amused.

“It’s no business of yours, Phasma,” Ren snaps, anger abruptly spiking. He must still be snooping through her mind.

“I’m quite happy with it being that way, Lord Ren,” Phasma answers smartly, a smirk playing at her lips. She’s feeling awfully smug for someone who could still easily be disposed of; wanting to go to the Resistance is nearly as bad as wanting to kill him for Snoke.

Ren huffs next to him, his ire quickly superseded by that damned amusement again.

“It is,” Hux says aloud, narrowing his eyes as he looks over with some resentment. “Could you have controlled your temper this whole time? Because I’m about to be very cross with you.”

Phasma makes a scoffing noise, moving at a quicker pace as they approach the landing pad and their waiting freighter, apparently not wanting to even be witness to this conversation. She triggers the locks and opens the hatch, leaving the ramp down behind her rather than actively insisting they hurry. 

Ren glances downward as they slow to a stop next to the freighter, shoulders curling inward just slightly as he starts to speak, “Snoke encouraged me to harness it and hold it to the surface. He said the despair would be answered with strength. I’ve been… Attempting to let more slights go unheeded. It has been bizarrely painless.”

“I’m not asking about that,” Hux says lowly, forcing Ren to look up and catching his eyes. Hux deliberately recalls a few of the instances where he had been so overwhelmed he had to remove himself from command, his mind so filled with agony he could barely think.

“No, that is… More innate,” Ren says, and he seems to grow more frustrated just by admitting the irrationality, as if he cannot understand his own mind. “I become overwhelmed by such simple thoughts.”

“Wonderful,” Hux mutters, turning away and climbing the ramp into the freighter, trying not to feel disappointed that this is a Ren problem and not a Snoke one. “I guess being rid of that would’ve been too much of a boon.”

Ren follows him without so much as physical pause, his frustration and distress determinedly trailing along like a shadow. The multiplicity in emotion is not any worse than the monotonous anger, which had been a constant shriek of sparks even at it’s quietest, nor is it necessarily any better. Hux had grown used to the anger, at the very least, and he’s always been resistant to change, even if it was objectively decent.

Hux walks past the control cabin where Phasma sits, instead guiding Ren to a small cargo closet where he’s stowed away the little belongings he brought along. He crouches down, reaching into a half-separated wall panel and grabbing the slim weapon. He turns around as he unwraps it, letting the edges glint dully off the dim lighting.

“Where did you find that?” Ren says, voice breathless with such surprise that it drowns out everything else. “It – He said he’d have it destroyed.”

“He lied,” Hux says, being careful of the activator switch as he holds it out. “It was gathering dust in some artifact room, and I took it just before we permanently redeployed to Starkiller.”

“Have you used it?”

Hux resists the urge to scoff, “I’ve had no need.”

“You trust a blaster more,” Ren says, finally reaching out and grabbing the hilt. He holds it like it’ll break, his fingers delicate along the patterned contours and sweeping lines.

“I’m not as much a fool as you,” Hux says, absently patting the blaster against his leg. “I prefer to be a distance away from my enemies.”

Ren takes a step back and activates it, casting the small sleeping quarters in a pleasant violet. His mind is a battle between elation and regret as he swings it in a wide arc from one corner of the room to the other.

“I had expected blue,” Hux says, watching the light dance across the room before catching Ren’s eyes. “Or red.”

“The color is unimportant,” Ren says, switching it off with a flick of his wrist.

Hux frowns purposely, raising an eyebrow with dissatisfaction. He knows better, even with his misguided attempt at education.

“Skywalker conceded it meant I had ties to the Dark side,” Ren admits, holding the hilt tightly enough that his knuckles turn white, a loud spike of fury coloring his reminiscence. “He seemed under the impression it didn’t matter.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, easily surmising the rest of the story. “I take it that led you to Snoke.”

“In so many words,” Ren says, a tic forming in his jaw as he slips the saber between a few ties in his clothing that could perhaps be described as belts, effectively hiding the dark hilt within the folds. “As I said, it’s unimportant. The next one I made was red.”

“I’m disappointed,” Phasma interjects, stepping up to lean against the jam of the small door. “You didn’t even try to surprise me with that.”

Hux gives her a dark smirk, “This model freighter would be difficult to defend alone should we encounter conflict.”

Phasma raises an eyebrow before looking away from him, speaking to Ren, “Would you like to meet us somewhere less populated?”

“His stolen cruiser is undoubtedly ruined, getting to this planet in half the recommended time,” Hux says dismissively, pushing past Ren and then Phasma as he heads toward the main quarters. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the hyper drive was completely overworked and the hull in dire need of resurfacing. I pity the trader it was unloaded on.”

A sharp snap of anger lashes at Hux’s mind, badly hiding a deeper core of embarrassment at the accusation, but Ren doesn’t disagree. He merely follows in petulant silence, slowing down after the doors slide open and then stopping completely at the ornate railing with an invasive sense of incredulity.


	3. Chapter 3

The living deck is unusually large even for a freighter this size, clearly expanded by repurposing part of the cargo bay, and even spans two levels. It is lavish, really, and Hux knows that he’s becoming more and more spoiled the longer he stays on it. His instructors at the Academy would be furious at the display of blatant egoism and unnecessary luxury.

“Who did you kill for this ship?” Ren asks, glancing quickly over as one of the larger holovid receivers turns on in response to their arrival. He seems to be completely serious, his mood grim even as he stares up at the muted image of a brightly dressed Gungan flamboyantly recounting the news for the day.

Predictably, it is still predominantly concerning Hosnian relief efforts.

“I acquired it from a Resistance member,” Phasma says, a small smirk forming on her lips as she sinks into the plush upper-deck couch. “I imagine they’re missing it.”

“It is a rather extravagant transport for an individual who would volunteer for a suicide mission,” Hux says, looking at a few of the more questionable accoutrements. He still does not understand the obscenely costly addition of a fully-working water plumbing system that spans across both floors into the lower refresher, complete with secondary sonic shower for seemingly no more reason than variety. “I would never commission such a significant loss of cargo space for mere comfort.”

“No, the freighter was – It’s designed like this because it is Organa’s personal convoy, given to her by Corellian out of gratitude shortly after the fall of the Empire,” Ren trails off, glancing around corners as his mind flickers between images of a very similar interior, one with a slightly different color scheme but otherwise identical layout. “I did not recognize it from the outside.”

“I imagine with her rank, she merely bought a new one,” Hux says, feeling an odd itch below his skin. The alternative is too much: if Organa had the… The literal foresight to send her personal ship with an infiltrator during the Starkiller attack, then –

“She knew,” Ren says, voice soft and little more than a gasp. His hands curl around the rail guard, knuckles going white. “She knew what I would do.”

“Do not assume such hasty conclusions,” Hux snaps, feeling Ren’s mood begin to spike and scream into a similar place as it had been aboard _Finalizer_. The guilt and anger are spiraling together, curling around Ren like a cloak and spreading outward until they sink into Hux. He inhales unsteadily, frustrated at his own mind for being unused to an arguably common sensation after only a short time apart from it.

“It may have been used as a base, I didn’t ask,” Phasma says, trying to rationalize in that especially steady voice; the one she uses on entire squads of anxious troopers. “If you’re going to be in a destructive mood because of a simple coincidence, Lord Ren, I’d appreciate you taking it outside.”

“How is it a coincidence?” Ren says, turning and letting go of the rail as he gestures outward at the lower level. “This ship was practically our – her _home_ , she wouldn’t just hand it over to some random agent. It would be an invasion.”

“You said yourself she was pragmatic,” Hux says, straightening his shoulders and keeping his feet planted as Ren attempts to crowd him backward.  “If they truly needed a ship, she would provide.”

Ren scowls deeply, openly looming, “I don’t believe that.”

Hux flexes his jaw and narrows his eyes, “Perhaps she doesn’t appreciate the memories as much as you, Jedi Killer.” 

Ren inhales harshly, his eyes so dark they’re almost black as his anger shrieks like fracturing durasteel, “A man who ended _billions_ should not be casting stones at my transgressions.”

“And one who simply abandons responsibility without care should not dismiss the motivations of those who want to rid themselves of every reminder of their disappointment,” Hux says, steady and quiet, attempting to calm what little he has left of his own mind and refusing to be drawn into Ren’s attempts to rile him.

“Alright, this is moronic,” Phasma says, her steady voice easily lifting over their hushed, angry whispers. “I’m going downstairs.”

Ren sneers, fists curling tightly at his sides, “I have never – “

“We are only having this discussion because you do,” Hux interrupts, first surprised at the hoarseness of his voice, then realizing soon after that he’s begun to yell. He swallows, pushing away the tightness that threatens to completely seize his throat.

Ren actually steps back, a sudden melancholy peaking from within the anger as he looks at Hux. He doesn’t understand, because he never understands; everyone around him facilitates that perpetual fight with his owned mediocrity and all he does is act out selfishly, uncaring for the consequences.

“You have no sense of loyalty,” Hux continues, sneering as he deliberately squares his shoulders, hands balled tight enough that he can feel his fingernails threatening to reopen his palms. “You want power without accountability – without responsibility.”

Ren shakes his head just slightly, “What?”

Hux shifts forward, filling in the space that Ren attempts to put between them, but wary of looking him straight in the eye. He’s too used to fighting Ren with that faceless mask, and is now shamefully unprepared. “You knew my entire life was crafted for your despicable sake and you couldn’t even finish the damned job.”

“It was crafted for _him_ , for the First Order and the beliefs you’re so obsessed with,” Ren says, his hands twitching as they curl in and out of shaky fists; the sudden wretchedness somehow having quickly eclipsed the usually relentless anger. “Supreme Leader delights in your pain.”

“That’s bloody rich, coming from you,” Hux says, chest heaving against the restricting leather as he breathes hard. He balks suddenly, finally looking up and catching sight of Ren’s eyes to seeing tears spilling over his cheeks.  “Why are you crying – are you some kind of child? I know this isn’t the first time I’ve yelled at you.”

“Because you’re a bastard,” Phasma shouts, her voice strangely weak as it echoes up to them through the floor. “I haven’t cried in twelve years, not since that pilot broke my back.”

“I am perfectly calm,” Hux denies, managing to lower his voice against a throat that feels like razors. He swallows again, a strange pang striking as he watches Ren try to blink back tears.

“You shouldn’t be capable of this,” Ren mumbles, trying to mop up his face with a ragged sleeve. “The loss seems to be getting to you; your mind is more ruthless than ever.”

“I’ve lost nothing,” Hux barks, stepping back from Ren even further, suddenly feeling as if it’s urgent there be space between them. He cannot afford to lose his sense of discipline now, not with his entire life having fallen apart in less than a standard week, especially with the potential that Ren’s anarchist mother now has her hand in his future by sheer benefit of _mystical premonition_.

“You lied,” Ren says, glancing upward with red-rimmed eyes. The anger doesn’t spike again, apparently somehow soothed by the sudden burst of tears, and he simply stands there in a haze of misery and guilt. “Do you think she knows where I am?”

“I do not know,” Hux mutters, backing away even further and pulling open the conservator door just to put something solid between them.

“I never knew the depth of her power,” Ren says, his voice as uneven as it is contemplative. “She never believed in restoring the Jedi Council. She… She believed it failed for a reason.”

“Surely she feels vindicated, now,” Hux says, shoving aside a bottle with an unfamiliar logo. Every thing he has tried to eat since leaving the Order has been entirely too sweet or too salty, even too sour. Phasma has had the same complaints; she hasn’t actually said anything, but it’s been difficult not to notice her recurring displeasure.

“They are all so misguided,” Ren mutters, a sharp note of disgust clearly discernible, stronger than even the misery.

“Except for you,” Hux says dryly, and closes the conservator with a shallow sigh. He glances over in time to catch Ren’s answering frown, and smirks back sharply, relieved to find the room clearing of the otherwise weighty emotion.

“We have a problem,” Phasma says, appearing at the top of the stairs and loudly unmuting the thus far ignored holovid, bodily pushing past Ren with a brave elbow. She toggles the channels until the screen stops on a pair of gaudily dressed announcers, then asks the holovid to rewind five minutes previous as she stands in front of it with crossed arms.

Hux blinks away from the odd sight of Phasma with red ringed around her eyes, and widens his own at the improbable sight on the screen: his own dour face sandwiched between Ren and Phasma’s. The two brightly smiling hosts gesture between the photos in perfect synced succession and are almost showcasing the three of them like some type of product. The only blessing is that every image is severely out of date, especially Phasma’s, which displays her as an underfed teenager with a mess of ill-cared for hair.

“The First Order, after having destroyed much of the New Republic fleet, seems to have lost a trio of highly important officials, and their leader wishes to see them back alive,” the host says, smile disturbingly fixed even as they refer to the destruction of their own government. They shuffle to the opposing side of the board, flipping the pictures to display assigned credit values. “A dead or alive bounty of 500,000 credits is available for human female Phasma, 1,500,000 for human male Hux, while the human male Kylo Ren née Ben Organa-Solo is wanted _alive only_ for a whopping 5,000,000!”

“Phasma is highly trained and highly capable in a variety of combat arts, particularly close quarters and vibro-sword, and has up until her defection been in command of the First Order’s Storm Trooper units,” the second host says cheerily, gesturing with a bony hand to Phasma’s picture, then over to Hux with their other. “While Hux is a skilled strategist and orchestrator of the attack on the Hosnian System, and rumored to have even designed the super-weapon himself.”

“Organa-Solo is a trained Force-user, so he is particularly dangerous,” the first host adds, flipping Ren’s card to the center and amplifying his picture. “We advise keeping a distance when dealing with this individual, as he is purportedly capable of stopping a blaster shot!”

Both hosts turn their backs to each other, striking a preposterous at-ready pose, “The three have been witnessed together in the Outer Rim, so watch your sixes out there!”

“Pause,” Ren snaps, his hands curling together as he stares at the frozen image of his own half-obstructed face on-screen.

Hux looks at Phasma, words ‘witnessed together’ ringing in his ears. She raises her eyebrows in silent agreement, then gestures to the head of the ship with her chin. He nods slowly, uncaring for what Ren might think; they’re leaving this planet. Hux is unsure who in particular could have witnessed them, but the companions of a certain Togruta are the most likely candidates.

“Snoke gave them my name,” Ren says lowly, fuming as he stares transfixed by the frozen holovid, clearly considering breaking it out of sheer spite.

Hux purses his mouth, sighing deeply and ignoring the ire as he approaches the empty couch, hearing the thrusters initiate start-up and uneager to be standing when the freighter takes off. He ignores the stir of anger as Ren hovers a few meters to his right, and sits down, activating the strategy hologame he’s been occupy himself with for the last few days of travel.

Prior to this mess of a week, Hux never allowed himself to use one for mere entertainment, only significant battle assessment, but has now discovered a undeniable distraction in the activity. He feels a certain charm in being able to take whatever path he chooses without any true consequence, including those that end in absolute destruction, and has even beaten every of Ren’s scores on each pre-programmed level and match difficulty. Granted, he didn’t know they were Ren’s at the time – ‘BOS’ doesn’t hold any particular meaning without context.

Hux startles slightly when Ren actually slinks down to sit next to him, musing on something even though the resentment continues to simmer; the holovid still paused on the same screen. He clearly wants to talk, but Hux would rather be strangled than actually initiate a conversation fueled by such an odd mix of guilt, curiosity, and anger.

“Do you and Phasma truly have no other names?” Ren says, breaking the silence as he looks sideways and then slowly down at the hologame, oddly put off by Hux ignoring him.

Hux exhales tersely, selecting a squad of characters with a spin of his finger and then directing them into a doomed battle. “I only have Hux, as you should know. It was the name and legacy I was allowed to keep.”

“And Phasma?”

“She crafted the name herself,” Hux says, glancing upward when Ren surges with honest surprise and confusion. It’s a bizarre reaction for a man who certainly did the same. “She was one of the very first troopers of my father’s design, and currently the last of her generation.”

Ren hums lowly, skeptical, “You allowed her to change her own designation.”

“It was one of the first requests I made,” Hux says, tilting his head sideways when Ren reaches presumptuously for an ignored secondary squadron, and Hux forcefully pushes the drifting hand out of range with a sharp stab of his fingers. “Being your obligatory companion has not been entirely unbeneficial.”

“A martyr to your cause,” Ren says, huffing with irritation at his unsolicited help being so easily dismissed.

The ship pitches a moment later, moving upward without so much as a polite warning, and Hux freezes when he ends up shouldered over onto his side by an ungainly fool. The position is maintained for far too long, and Hux glares hard at the arm practically pinning him to the couch, held rigidly in place for the entirety of the launch and until they break the atmosphere, which is signaled blessedly by another few moments of strong turbulence as they enter open space.

Ren pushes away without so much as an apology, righting himself amid a rush of directionless frustration, probably for Phasma. He even reaches for the table again, so petty that he actually sees this as an opportunity to ruin a six-hour game.

Hux leans up and grabs the hand before it can complete the move, squeezing Ren’s fingers together in a way meant to be painful. “Your scores are abhorrent, Ren, back off.”

“I will not be judged for something I did as a child,” Ren says, though he doesn’t so much as try to break out of the grip.

“Perhaps to someone who has not regularly suffered your methods with actual, living troopers that would mean something,” Hux says, insistent for Ren to rescind his attempted move by directing the captured hand toward the cancel icon. The worst part of it all is that Ren is not even remotely insulted for a change, and seems to simply have tried this just to get at Hux.

“Not only,” Ren mutters, a wash of revelment brushing against Hux’s mind.

Hux lets go of the hand, refusing to entertain even the idea of smirking back at him. “Leave me. Go meditate, or whatever it is that you do with free time that isn’t destroying my property.”

“Meditation often makes my mind more chaotic,” Ren says, shifting into the couch and seeming to settle in just to watch, somehow doing it all without moving so much as a centimeter; the side of his thigh is still against Hux’s. “You don’t like it either.”

“It allows me to reflect on strategy,” Hux says, disagreeing with a sharp mental jab against Ren for being so presumptuous.

“When I attempt it,” Ren amends with an odd, huffy exhale and a returning strike of impatience. “You seem to think more about killing me than ever, though that may be just because it is easier for me to see inside your mind. It could be what you think about constantly.”

“Not an incorrect assumption,” Hux says, unwary of the reaction and simply selecting the main squad to move around the enemy. The avatars glance up at him, then at Ren, and are suddenly more sluggish about taking orders. It seems they recognize Ren despite the age and scar; he’ll have to program them out of it.

Phasma re-enters the area behind a soft, nonintrusive hiss of the door, and then stops, staring for a moment with an odd note of mirth quickly crossing through her mind before vanishing. She passes them and walks into the galley, pulling out some dry crackers that seem to be the only palatable thing on the entire freighter.

Hux blinks in surprise when Ren abruptly moves away, sliding a good half meter to the right. He even puts a foot up on the table, slumping into the cushions as if it was something he planned on all along. Hux might have believed it if he were anyone else, but that embarrassment is back, starkly similar to earlier when they were speaking outside the freighter.

“Are we to drift aimlessly?” Phasma asks, sinking down into a chair just under the holovid. “Because I cannot promise we won’t encounter anyone who won’t attack on sight.”

“We can kill any of them easily,” Ren says, sneering in offense at the mere implication. “A bounty hunter has little true skill and cares only for money.”

“They are certainly single-minded,” Hux concedes, hovering a hand over a squadron of foot soldiers before choosing instead to move the ternion of assassins behind the main enemy.

Phasma hums her own agreement, silent for a moment before clicking her tongue. “What of the Knights?”

“The same, if more talented,” Ren says, humming tersely with only mild concern. “They hold no true allegiance to the Dark Side. It was why I was made their master so young.”

“Are you really implying none of them will continue to fight for Snoke? He has as much money as anyone,” Hux says, looking away from his game to give Ren a rebuking look. He can think of at least one Knight who would kill Hux only for the sheer satisfaction, and none of the group could be called particularly gracious when it came to perceived betrayal.

“I’m saying none of them will enter a battle they cannot win,” Ren says, raising an eyebrow with a tilt of his head and an edge of implication, accompanied by a pointed flicker of eyes to Phasma sitting across from them.  

Hux sighs slowly, forgetting his reservations with the Knights, and renewed in his aggravation at Phasma’s abysmal choices. He’ll demand the story later, perhaps even forgive it, but for now he’s just going to sink into being distrustful for as long as logically possible.

“And the girl?” Phasma asks, gesturing brusquely with a cracker at the most obvious evidence of that particular victory.

“She is doubtlessly halfway to Skywalker by now,” Ren says, lips twisting with no little amount bitterness, still indignant by that failure. “Organa will await his arrival before moving forward.”

“You cannot be sure,” Hux says, severely skeptical at the implication of an inarguable guarantee, especially considering whose ship they are currently using as transport.

“The Resistance would not try to outright kill anyone,” Ren says, and his bitterness grows from mist into a thick cloud of misery and guilt. “They will attempt to change my allegiances.”

“I thought your allegiances had already changed,” Phasma says, leaning forward in the chair and glaring sharply, her disbelief heavy in the air. “You cannot still be set on killing Skywalker?”

Ren huffs, looking down at the board with an impassive look.

Phasma glances to Hux, and he shakes his head with small shrug. He cannot truly know, isn’t especially capable of discerning such a specific thought, but he has a vague sense Ren isn’t certain about it. He doesn’t seem to _want_ it, judging by the prevalent uncertainty, but that typically means little to how Ren will truly act.

“We will need fuel soon enough, and Ryloth is near enough to an outlaw planet that we should easily be able to attain it there without notice,” Hux says, tired of the direction of the conversation, and uneager to delve into it further. Ren’s lack of commitment has never been his problem. “If we enter hyperspace at a low speed, it will confuse any who saw us on Tatooine. They may think we went further out if we take hours to get to such a nearby system.”

“You want to go to the slave planet,” Phasma says, raising an eyebrow and feeling a familiar note of condescending skepticism. “Have you changed your opinion on dyes?”

“Uncalled for, Phasma,” Hux snaps, cross at the implication that he won’t be able to handle himself against a bunch of amateur slave traders, and at the expectation that they’d want him anyway with an entire planet of better prospects around them. “I’m worth much more as an individual, anyway.”

“Only if they know you as an individual,” Ren says, leaning forward and lacing both hands over his raised knee in mocking consideration. “And it’s not as if the Hutt is the only one interested, there’s rumor he started a trend.”

“Where did you even hear this obscene rumor?” Hux says, irritation growing as he tries to parse out if it’s a lie, and finding no evidence of it. “It’s insulting that you think me so incapable.”

“I have said nothing against your capability,” Ren says, frowning back with a spike of strong frustration. “You’re the one who holds such beliefs.”

Hux scowls, grinding his molars slightly as he’s forced to accept that Ren doesn’t believe himself to be lying about that either. He takes a deep breath and stands, shutting off the hologame without bothering to save it. “I’m going downstairs. I expect the ship to be in orbit around Ryloth the next time I speak to either of you.”

~

Hux inhales, forced into reluctant awareness as his eyelids drag themselves open to stare at a dull glint of hyperspace light against the wall. He attempts to relax, exhaling slowly and closing his eyes, only to flinch and snap his eyes open as he hears a startling electric buzz less than three meters from his back. It casts the entire dark room in soft light before receding away just a few moments later.

He’s beginning to realize why he woke up.

“Would you like to know why I did it?”

Hux sighs into the cot, rolling over and glaring at the direction of the voice. Ren seems to be sat on the floor against the cabin door and suffering his usual insomnia, only instead of bearing it silently, he is playing with his light saber.

In Hux’s sleep quarters.

“Because it is your lifelong goal to disrupt any sense of peace?” Hux mutters, blinking slowly as he watches the saber rise once more into existence, tip it to the side in a violet arc, and then disappear. He knows exactly what Ren is attempting to address, and would really rather not hear it, especially not after being so rudely woken. “Won’t you at least try to be quiet?”

“You’ve been curious,” Ren says, his voice low and steady, eyes glittering even against the dim light of the passing stars. “Every time you look at me, some part of you wonders.”

“I’m not a fool,” Hux mutters, ignoring the urge to look away and perhaps at some convenient flickering light; Ren possibly cannot even see him, but his pride couldn’t take it. “Killing me couldn’t have been any worse than… other things you’d already done.”

Ren acknowledges the implication with a sorrowful twinge, then an abrupt well of surety, not unlike the moments just before he entered Hux’s quarters on the Finalizer. He flicks the saber on again, perhaps for a source of unnecessary light. “I spoke to my grandfather. My real one.”

Hux stills, making every effort to silence his thoughts and steel any outward expression, but he must reveal something, because Ren’s emotions spike sharply into anger and frustration. He relaxes with a tired sigh, watching the emotions play out on Ren’s tinted expression. Hux has never understand why Ren chose to base his entire life under such an absolute, and frankly misguided, delusion.

“I’m not being delusional!” Ren says, needlessly speaking louder over Hux’s wordless protests. He seems to honestly believe what he’s saying, not that it has ever meant anything when it came to that ghastly heirloom or its supposed voice. “He was visible and otherworldly. He informed me I had been misled by those I trusted – he said he had once suffered under the same machinations.”

Hux grits is teeth and closes his eyes for a too-short moment of concentration. Ren seems to have flashes of memory featuring some unclear shape of a man, but that could be nothing. The story gives little more than the impression of an attempt on Ren’s part to parallel his life with his idol.

Ren turns the saber off, letting the hilt drop to his side as he clambers up to a standing position, his shadowy form visible enough to discern his gesturing outward with both hands in frustration. “He said Supreme Leader was simply following Darth Sidious’ teachings in manipulating me for his goals. Snoke only wants me to kill you because Darth Sidious wrote that Grandfather killed his pregnant wife in a rage, and that the act fueled his power, but such a belief is clearly flawed.”

“I will admit you exist,” Hux mutters, sighing and pressing his forehead onto the knuckles of a propped up hand. He nearly stalls on the _pregnant wife_ aspect, and has to shelve that inferred concept for later. “Although, I can hardly believe I’m entertaining any of this as truth.”

Ren somehow gets more riled, attempting to pace the tiny room, but only managing three strides abreast. “He told me that the Light and the Dark were sentient constructs, and that the Force has no allegiance even to the wielder. He said I should listen to myself rather than old men, and the power would come easily.”

“Ren,” Hux sighs, glancing upward through his eyelashes to watch the marching shadow, listening to Ren destroy random, hopefully unimportant, objects with Force telekinesis. “You are describing exactly how to rise to power in any aspect of life.”

“He said that the voice I had heard through the helmet was merely Snoke, manipulating me after I found it in Skywalker’s temple,” Ren snaps, anger worsening as he starts toying at the activator switch of his light saber, flickering the room in and out of light like some sort of violet strobe.

“How was this version any different?” Hux asks, realizing too late that he should instead be asking for the clarification on the actual reason, not this fallacy on the part of Ren’s clearly grief addled mind. He definitely should have kept that light saber to himself until it was needed for something more than a tantrum.

“He had my namesake with him,” Ren says, light saber falling dark and down to his side, his anger dimming slightly into unease. “Another Jedi, who also expressed his… _disappointment_.”

“Ah,” Hux says, rubbing his eyes and then pressing his fingers into the sockets. “You spoke to two dead men.”

“They were ethereal and inarguable,” Ren says, punishing the skepticism with a pointed pang of annoyance that prickles like little more than dull thorns. “I heeded their wisdom and attempted to spare you. You should be thankful.”

Hux can hardly stop himself from responding to that with a measure of bitterness. He shouldn’t care of the motivations, as he can hardly tolerate Ren in return, but the tentative belief otherwise had been somewhat comforting.  “Why are you even in here to begin with? Aside from the dramatic flair, you could have waited for me to wake up.”

Ren is silent for a long moment, awkwardness surfacing over his turmoil. “You are in… These are my quarters.”

“I have to disagree,” Hux mutters, turning around so his back is to Ren and tempted to pull the bedding over his head like some petulant child. He claimed these quarters when Phasma obtained the freighter, and Ren is not going to – Ah. Of course, only Ren would think such an argument is valid. “You do not get to maintain claim to this room after so long. It doesn’t so much as have any belongings in it.”

“It has my bed,” Ren mutters, voice dipping dangerously into sulking territory.

“Bully for you,” Hux snaps, giving in and pulling the duvet over his head. He had been legitimately asleep for the first time since Starkiller, so of course Ren must ruin it with delusional claims and stories about dead men.

Ren sighs heavily, then loudly slides down the door again to sit in the place he’d been when waking Hux up.

Hux ignores the urge to groan, staring at the alusteel paneling for a few moments, just long enough for Ren to flicker the light saber again. He rolls over and stares at the ceiling, feeling his jaw begin to tic. “There is a perfectly good sleeping quarters across the deck. I believe the bed might even be longer, though I’ve not seen to measure it.”

A pang of sorrow goes through Ren, along with a muddy image of two people standing, before both rapidly fade into nothing, replaced by the usual rumble of anger. “Stop looking in my head.”

“You project,” Hux mutters, taking a slow breath and closing his eyes from the bright reflection of the light saber, painful as it is against the polished metal of the ceiling. “As someone with very little memory of my own parents, I cannot help but resent you.”

“That isn’t my problem,” Ren snaps, his rough clothing scuffing audibly against the floor as he curls in further over himself.

“It isn’t even a clear image, which I remember, though perhaps I should be thankful for that,” Hux says, unsure of why he’s suddenly openly divulging such a closely guarded memory, but it could easily be dismissed as simple stress. He often pretends he doesn’t have it, or that it was all just a vague delusion. “It is mostly an abrupt absence of their desperation; my mother’s skin growing cold against my side.”

Ren is quiet for a long few moments, his grief slipping somewhere toward pity. “I did not know.”

“You see, Ren, to a toddler, the answer to an unescapable fear is their parents, but to an adult, the answer is more permanent,” Hux says, forcing opening his eyes and staring at a dark smudge in a ceiling panel, trying to empty his mind of anything remotely contemplative. “Snoke induced it, but I cannot quite recall exactly how… Either way, I’m sure he ended the whole arrangement with regret. He killed a pair of the few remaining officers that day for nothing.”

“I knew you often dreamed versions of it,” Ren says, altering the meaning of his earlier statement with an unexpected sense of urgency. “I didn’t know it already happened – I believed it was an event you anticipated happening if you actively used your power.”

“Dreamed it,” Hux repeats, and is reluctantly bewildered. He never remembers his dreams; he thought he didn’t have any.

“The guards would start sobbing, some nights,” Ren continues, his voice low and critical, as if it was something Hux had purposefully done.

“The position has a very high turnover,” Hux says, musing on the consequence with a belated sense of shame. “I assumed it was because of you.”

Ren exhales sharply, a shade of irritation slinking through his mind behind the pity “Not everything is my fault alone.”

“My ability is not widely known,” Hux says, conceding to the indignation with a reluctant sort of apology. “Snoke clearly didn’t believe it worth mentioning, even for reward.”

“Fewer bounty hunters would be willing to attempt capture of two Force-users,” Ren says, head tipping and audibly hitting against the door. “There is a reputation I’ve upheld.”

“You do a rather admirable job of spreading fear,” Hux says, glancing over and watching the dark outline of Ren for a few moments. He appears to have actually resigned to the situation, his hands lying lax at his sides. “Are you truly going to sit there all night?”

“Yes,” Ren mutters, his breath evening out and mind mostly clearing if for a low rumble of the ever-present ire.

Hux turns over on his side again, away from Ren, and is resolute in ignoring him. Ren’s stubbornness is no longer his responsibility, and he’s not about to start conceding to his childish whims for something so inconsequential. He closes his eyes, shoving his face into a pillow, and tries to find that place he’d been in before Ren woke him up – before they started telling stories of the long dead.

A pressure nudges across his shoulders before quickly receding, and Hux forces his eyes to stay shut as he grits his teeth, curving into the cot further. He ignores the second almost-shove and the subsequent annoyance coming from Ren, keeping his breath even and calm until exhaustion finally manages to take over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren scowls, humiliation surfacing as his mouth twists downward. “Stay out of my head.”
> 
> “Will you return the favor?” Hux asks, turning and glancing at him sharply, as if he doesn't already know the answer.
> 
> “No,” Ren says, with a staunchly held frown.

Ren is stretched across the floor, his ragged clothing split and exposing his scarred ribs to the cold alusteel, and Hux sighs heavily as he looks down at him. The half-hearted guilt never gets a chance to fully develop, as Ren abruptly wakes like he’s in the throes of a nightmare, which unless he’s suddenly gotten much better at masking, he wasn’t, and grabs Hux’s calf with one hand.

Hux raises an eyebrow, wondering if he should just kick him.

“Don’t,” Ren says, but he makes no effort to let go. In fact, makes a move further and slips his fingers around the back of Hux’s knee until they’re curved completely around the cap, his elbow even against the floor. “You shouldn’t go to Ryloth.”

“Why?” Hux says, glancing down and lifting his arms to cross lazily over his chest. “Is this more advice from the dead?”

Ren stares for a few moments, then pulls himself up against the door with a rush of embarrassment, finally letting go of Hux’s leg. He looks away, somewhere at his own knees, “Not as such… I have a bad feeling.”

“How tragic,” Hux mutters, mouth twisting up in disbelief and turning his back, walking over to the pile of folded clothes in the corner shelf. “We both know what I think of your feelings.”

“Phasma and I are capable of getting everything on our own.”

“Just as I am of leaving once you do, mostly out of spite at this point,” Hux says, pulling on one of the shirts he’d found and then his jacket, only to pause as he begins to button it up; he suddenly very much worries that most of his new wardrobe once belonged to Han Solo.

“I’d find you,” Ren says, evidently too caught up in his thoughts to go through Hux’s.

Hux begrudgingly continues closing up his jacket, covering up the now almost offensive shirt. He’ll find something new, preferably at the same time he forces Ren into actual clothing. “Yes, but I would have left.”

Ren openly frowns, expression almost a perfect example of petulance, “You are being needlessly argumentative.”

“Every person in this ship is wanted for a large sum of money,” Hux says, glancing to the small vanity mirror in the corner of the room and sweeping his hair back into something mildly presentable. “A little red hair is not going to be my ultimate downfall. In fact, it will probably be you.”

Hux intends it as something of a joke, despite excusably believing it, but Ren predictably thinks it far more significant. Hux rubs at his brow and exhales slowly, still exhausted despite the satisfactory sleep, and in no mood to suffer the blow of misery and anger so soon after waking. He takes another, longer inhale and mentally reaches for Ren without reflecting on the potential consequences of outright invasion.

Ren’s emotions are always tumultuous as the worst sort of storm, disregarding the last day or so, and while Hux doesn’t have true training, he can easily find the source in rapidly fluctuating fragments of images. The memory is difficult to parse as a whole, but the pieces are similar enough to recent experiences of Hux’s own on a cold walkway floor that he can understand without much of a struggle.

“That transpiring is highly unlikely, Ren,” Hux says, receding, as much as he ever can, from Ren’s mind with a sharp sigh of exasperation. He crouches down next to the bed, pulling the blaster from where it is tucked in next to the table. “Unless, of course, you’ve got another light saber exactly like your lost one laying about somewhere.”

Ren scowls, humiliation surfacing as his mouth twists, “Stay out of my head.”

“Will you return the favor?” Hux asks, turning and glaring sharply, as if he doesn't already know the answer.

Ren gives a staunch frown. “No.”

“Then stop being so difficult about it,” Hux says, reaching out above him and activating the door.

Ren stays still even as the metal scrapes along behind him, barely flinching at the friction at his back. He seems set on utilizing this unusually passive form of protest, which is almost more irritating than the customary violence.

Hux sighs deeply, shifting on his feet slightly with a scowl settling on his lips. He could step over, but that might invite potential ungainly consequences that would end with him on prone against the hard floor, so instead he lifts his chin, easily looking down his nose at Ren. “Move.”

“No,” Ren says, narrowing his eyes in turn and visibly squaring his shoulders to take up a wider space.

The idea of simply kneeing Ren in the face is looking more attractive with each passing second. Hux would end with his own bruises from the encounter, but he still would have done it, which is a satisfactory incentive.

Ren narrows his eyes with a grimace, obviously catching the thoughts and hastily rising to a standing position. “Listen to me.”

“Your reasoning is flawed and transparent,” Hux say, bracing his jaw even as he’s forced to look slightly up only to keep contact with Ren’s eyes. He presses forward, lifting one hand that threatens to make fierce contact with Ren’s chest. “I will not be caged, by slave traders nor you. Move aside.”

“Hux,” Phasma interjects, her tone almost bored, though she unquestionably finds amusement in watching Ren be an absolute twat to him. She’s been much more open about insubordination since it ceased to matter, and he believes that if he could see past the current human wall, she would be downright smirking at him. “We’re set to land in thirty minutes, Kala’uun. We’re nomads from the Western Reaches.”

“Do we have names?” Hux says, eyes still boring into Ren’s and determined to pass this ridiculous farce of obstruction.

“Asa,” Phasma says, her words followed by a thoughtful hum. “I took it from a villager. I’m sure in some way, they’d be appreciative of my continued use of it.”

Ren finally looks away, his shoulders falling in time with a strangely rising conviction as he steps aside, still not completely out of the way but no longer outright blocking. He seems to have decided on something, and hopefully it isn’t entirely moronic.

“None of us look remotely alike,” Hux says, slipping past Ren and stepping out into the main deck. He looks to where Phasma sits alone on a large, angular couch that could easily hold eight, her feet stretched out in front of her.

“We don’t have to,” Phasma says, barely bothering to look up from something she’s watching on a small holovid. “It is unlikely the average twi-lek can readily discern the subtleties of human lineage.”

“Republic planets care very little about human likeness,” Ren agrees, voice low and reluctant as he steps around Hux and toward the stairs to the upper level.

Phasma hums pointedly, finally glancing up to watch Ren walk past with a sharp stare. “I imagine non-humans are much less likely to mention how little you look like your parents.”

Hux twitches at the wave of absolute vitriol that comes out of Ren, spreading quick and merciless only to be abruptly swallowed back into nothingness as Ren reaches the foot of the stairs, suspiciously indifferent as if Phasma had mentioned little more than the weather. Hux stares after him in disbelief, curious until he remembers himself and turns to Phasma, glaring hard at her dissatisfied figure.

“How dull,” Phasma murmurs, her eyes sliding over to Hux with a frown curling at her lips. “His temper was half the fun.”

~

Hux does his best to ignore Ren’s irritatingly heavy presence as he pushes his way through the Kala’uun market, mentally and physically trailing him so closely they may as well be connected at the hip. The observance is less annoying than perhaps it should be, but that doesn’t make it comfortable or remotely welcome.

He has already pointed Ren at a few ration and water vendors, convincing them that the Asa party ordered provisions for the ship and were meant to get them hours ago. Phasma is set to receive the counterfeited deliveries, and they should go now and meet her, leaving the system completely without lingering, but Hux is reluctantly curious about the more specialty items available in a system he’s never seen reason to research.

Hux slows to a stop at a bakery stall, refusing to glance backward even as Ren practically steps on his heel. He studies the variety, ranging from from shaped biscuits to stuffed pies, and reaches forward to a point at a rather innocuous bread when the vendor glances at him, only to freeze when Ren leans in, practically pressed to him from ankle to shoulder.

“You won’t like that,” Ren murmurs, reaching forward and grabbing Hux’s hand to force it downward. “It’s glazed with sugars.”

Hux grimaces, begrudgingly listening to the advice. “Why would they do that? It doesn’t need to be sweet.”

“Because it tastes good to anyone who hasn’t been surviving on space rations and supps their entire life,” Ren says, redirecting Hux’s attention to a basket full of duller, less frosty loaves.

Hux scoffs, mouth twisting into a dissatisfied grimace, “It better serves the citizens if everyone has equal –“

“We’ve bought half of this,” Ren interrupts, stepping in front of Hux and catching the attention of the vendor with a dramatic wave of his hand. “We paid in full.”

The shopkeeper blinks, eyes going dull and vacant. They package up the bread, movements almost droid-like, and then hand it over. “You bought half of this. Enjoy.”

Ren takes the loaves with his usual straight frown, putting the bag around his arm. He glances to Hux, gesturing for them to move on to the next place with an odd curiosity about him. 

The next stall Hux wanders into is full of headscarves and lekkugear, and he pauses at a solid black half-cloak with a pair of grey stripes along one side of the hood. He hums, running his fingers down the edge, wondering at the width and glancing toward Ren.

“I don’t need more clothing,” Ren says, eyes going narrow and affronted. He has the scarf pulled up, his excuse something fabricated about the unfiltered air quality outside of his old helmet. Even so, it’s not difficult to determine by the pull of his cheek that he’s frowning.

“You seem unaware of it, but that is a lie,” Hux says, sliding the garment off it’s hanger and holding it in his hands. The material is soft and unfamiliar, but appears strong enough. He folds it over his arm, looking back to Ren, “You’re still flinching when anyone looks at you.”

Ren scoffs, but doesn’t attempt to disagree, glancing down at the cloak and then back up to Hux. He doesn't appreciate being reminded of something so petty as shame, judging by the rush of irritation. “If you can convince the shopkeeper yourself, I'll wear it.”

“Must you be so spiteful,” Hux mutters, allowing himself to feel annoyed as he looks down at the cloak. He sighs heavily, shifting his feet as he straightening the garment to re-hang it.

“You’ve already done it once,” Ren says, reaching out and stopping Hux from putting the cloak away, hand heavy on top of his forearm. “Do it again.”

Hux glances up, furrowing his brow in question. He cannot recall ever doing something like Ren is capable, except perhaps to a few suppliers on Starkiller, where it had entirely to do with mortal fear.

“That jacket you’re wearing – all the clothing you got on Javin,” Ren says, releasing Hux’s arm and gesturing downward at his front. “Phasma believes that was a similar trick.”

“I merely refused to acknowledge that fool’s attempts at barter any longer,” Hux says, disagreeing with an unimpressed huff and reminding himself to re-address that with Phasma once they've returned to the freighter. She cannot still be fostering a belief based in such utterly circumstantial events, especially as the vendor had been intimidated enough by her that they would have agreed to anything with a little more pressure. 

“Do it again,” Ren says, refusing to yield and glancing pointedly at the watching vendor.

Hux exhales slowly, resigning to an attempt, if only to settle this ridiculous matter for a final time. Afterward, he should also be able to manipulate Ren into tricking the vendor for the cloak, so it will be a dual victory as reward after the embarrassment he is about to suffer.

The vendor is unimpressed with their approach, glancing down at the cloak with an air of suspicion surrounding them. They seemed surprised, too, and probably at the fact Hux isn’t just outright stealing it; Ren’s visage and the blaster at Hux’s side causing them to appear like a pair of banal criminals.

The last vendor Hux had supposedly tricked received something in return, and he’d told them to be… _thankful_. He doesn’t believe such a technique will work on this one, with their dull stare of near complete apathy.

Hux exhales, setting the cloak on the counter, and hesitantly reaches out to find the mind of the vendor. His ability to mentally influence lies exclusively in burying Ren’s emotions, sealing the anger beneath a cheap veneer of contentment, but he has always been fairly certain that was a Ren-specific talent. He is unsure that he’ll be able to do something similar with the vendor, or perhaps it would be more appropriate to do the opposite, inundating them with pity while forcing them to focus on the peculiar, almost overwhelming sense of responsibility they have lying low under all that disillusionment.

“Take it, free of charge,” the vendor says, loud and now practically blubbering, promptly shoving the cloak back at Hux as their lekku begin to twitch. “Your friend looks cold.”

Hux glances up sharply, undeniably shocked at it somehow working with so little effort, and quickly tips his head slightly in thanks. He pulls the cloak to his chest, clutching it in his hands, and turns around on his heel to exit the small shop, trying not to bury himself in reevaluating every sentient interaction he has ever had in his life.

Is it possible he’s been doing that unintentionally his entire life? No, that would be absurd.

 _Absurd_.

Ren trails him, a sense of similar disbelief most prevalent as he walks beside Hux, inhaling quietly with an obvious question.

“I merely encouraged them to feel some sympathy,” Hux says, refusing to face him and suffer the look of knowing that surely accompanies the spread of feeling. “It is no different than what I have done with you, which is arguably a much more difficult task.”

“You didn’t have to say a single word,” Ren says, voice low and mind a jumble of admiration and esteem.

The combination isn’t unfamiliar, usually received from a number of the more naïve officers, but never from Ren; it makes something warm crawl dangerously under Hux’s skin. He dismisses it with a thick swallow, stopping in the middle of the street and then turning to hold the cloak out with one hand. Ren has flinched away from drifting eyes no less than four times just since they left that shop, and it is truly driving Hux mad.

Ren hesitantly grabs the cloak, a thick well of indignity slithering over the earlier pleasant thoughts. He pulls it on slowly, switching the bread between arms, until the cloak is casting a shadow over the upper part of his face, the rest covered by his scarf.

Hux nods, turning away and continuing along the rest of the bazaar. They’re silent for a few minutes, drifting in and out of stalls, Ren walking beside him and blessedly unbothered by any single foreign glance in his direction.

Hux looks sideways, catching the edge of Ren’s eyes, “Now people can look at you.”

“Yes,” Ren says, though his agreement is overshadowed by an odd ache. He looks down at the bread in his hands, the mysterious ache worsening, then turns his head away from Hux, “I’m going to put this in the conservator before it goes bad.”

Hux stares at him. He hadn’t known bread needed to go in a conservator. “Now?”

“Stop looking at me,” Ren snaps, suddenly radiating mortification as he pulls his new hood further over his face until even his eyes are hidden completely. He turns around and starts walking, the bag of bread clutched in a white knuckled hand, his other at his waist near the hidden light saber.

Hux lifts a hand too late to stop him, curious and a little hurt, then lets it drop. Where did all that eagerness from earlier go, to keep Hux from wandering off and getting captured? Not that Hux believes he could be taken, but… He doesn’t care. Ren will do what he likes, as usual.

Navigating the bazaar is suddenly much more daunting, though he’d never admit it aloud. He’s not accustomed to being in groups this large that aren’t under his command, let alone ones mingling with races that he cannot understand or tower half a meter above him. He glances sideways, eyes seizing on a small, dimly lit alley between two stalls. He drifts over toward it, suddenly curious about what might be in kept in it.

He nearly steps on top of a small, older woman sitting hidden in the corner, her hair folded in a series of plaits not unlike Ren’s, though they fall down her back rather than forcing her unconfined hair straight up. She’s staring straight at him, head tilted up and wearing an almost disturbingly calm expression.

“What are you doing here?” Hux asks, glancing down at the small crate she was using as a seat, feeling suddenly wary as she stands to move in front of him.

“Me? I’ve been waiting here all day,” she says, folding her hands behind her back and narrowing her eyes as she blatantly glances over him from head to toe. “The real question is: what are you doing here?”

“Who are you?” Hux says, swallowing tightly as he takes a step backward and nearly into a wall. He cannot feel anything from her, not an iota of emotion or presence, as if she’s a droid. “Why are you addressing me so familiarly?”

“Do I not live up to the images that the First Order shows their adherents?” The woman asks, her head tipping up with an almost familiar look of contempt, mouth twisted up in a parody of a smile. “For all the technology, the First Order’s intelligence is as weak as ever, General Hux.”

Organa.

It ought to be impossible. Ren should have felt her the moment they got within orbit, but there’s no one else she could be considering the circumstances. She’s older than he imagined, despite knowing her grown son, and far more powerful. He can barely discern where he is in the market anymore, and Ren’s presence is fading, quickly being overshadowed by something beyond authoritative. He gasps when Ren completely disappears, leaving him alone for the first time in almost fifteen years; it’s more painful, somehow, only having himself to reflect on.

“Snoke did something unnatural to you,” Organa says, lifting a hand as if she’s feeling the air around them. “I could rid you of it permanently, but it seems that might break you.”

Hux takes a steadying breath, attempting to calm himself. He wasn’t born with Ren in his head, and he would be fine without him, though the idea of having to suffer this echoing loneliness forever is inexplicably unwelcome. He frowns at Organa, swallowing hard, “Are you here to kill me?”

“No, that would be counterproductive,” Organa says, shaking her head once as she drops her hand.

Hux feels his lips curl into a sneer and his hands tighten into fists at his sides; his hesitant deference quickly replaced by ego. “I destroyed your government, your fleets – you betray your own people by standing here and sparing me.”

“Perhaps,” Organa agrees, mouth tightening into a firm line, and though she’s looking at Hux, it doesn’t feel particularly like she sees him. “But soon enough that façade around your mind will do more than crack, and all of those you massacred will be pressing at you, screaming their pain and sorrow – compounded further by true guilt. It will be punishment enough until your death.”

Hux flinches and nearly falls to his knees as a piercing scream of agony and horror strikes him, immeasurably stronger than anything Ren had ever felt. His chest seizes and he’s momentarily unable to breathe, as if every known pressure is holding tight his lungs. It abruptly disappears a too long moment later, leaving a harsh echo behind and throbbing under his skin. He coughs roughly, quickly realizing he’s only still standing because of a convenient wall against his back.

Organa keeps staring into him, head angling as her expression quirks into an odd frown. “But that’s for later. For now, you will help Ben.”

“ _Ren_ does not need any help,” Hux says, still breathing hard and unsure if he’s more in disbelief at circumstances or the fact that this woman insists on using Ren’s old name; on apparently thinking that somewhere in him lies a _good person_. “He is immature, but he’s no longer a child. He is capable of his own decisions.”

“He believes he can run forever, unheeded,” Organa says, eyes hard and an admirable amount inarguable. She suddenly seems twice as tall as her stature, as if Hux were kneeling to her just by authority alone. “Snoke will soon be after you all himself, furious with his forces now self-destructing at the absence of structure.”

“The First Order doesn’t depend so much on my command that it has disintegrated within a few short days,” Hux says, balking at the implication that he is currently facilitating the end of his own organization.  “The truth in our beliefs is what sustains us.”

“If Snoke hadn’t dismissed your elders, I might agree,” Organa says, folding her hands together at her front and raising an eyebrow. “But your entire force is built on an inexperienced generation; I would be surprised if you had ever taken council with anyone over the age of fifty.”

Hux exhales, gritting his teeth and looking away. Truthfully, he is unfamiliar with anyone older than even himself, but that cannot determine the strength of her claims. Frustratingly, her mind is still an even, blank slate, and he’s furious with the idea that he’s been depending on his abilities this way. He’s no better than Ren.

“I want you to bring Ben and Phasma to the Resistance,” Organa says, her face calm and still, as if such a request is at all sane. She is even tipping her head in thought, as if he’s the one who volunteered such a ludicrous course of action.

Hux scoffs under his breath, curling up his lip. She cannot expect that he has such influence to convince anyone of that, let alone Ren, and especially not when he doesn’t want it either. “I cannot force them.”

“You won’t have to,” Organa says, shaking her head just so and smiling in a tight way that suggests it might have started as a grimace. “Ben will be furious enough about this – he already is – that he will come on his own.”

“Your people will call for my execution,” Hux says, flexing his jaw as he argues another point, despite feeling like he’s already been bested. “For Phasma’s. You may be able to convince them Ren is useful as a leashed beast, but we’re not.”

“I won’t deny a similar sentiment to how you should be treated, Hux, but you must know you’re just as useful as him,” Organa says, raising a single, knowing brow and glancing pointedly up at his head. She lifts her chin, exhaling lengthily and returning her hands behind her back. “As for Phasma, she has already contacted me through my agent and attempted to spin her role on Starkiller as purposeful, which I’m tempted to convince the others it was – I’m going to need as many as I can get to remove Snoke and his remaining Knights.”

Organa is far more calculating than Hux had ever anticipated or given credit. She appears honestly willing to sacrifice an arguably righteous indictment against a literal destroyer of worlds to simply enact vengeance on Snoke; to have her son back. He cannot read her, but by her bold expression, he is certain she would feel completely in control, assured and unafraid.

Hux swallows again, abruptly feeling far more out of his depth now than ever he did in front of Snoke. “Ren says the Knights hold allegiance for little more than payment.”

“And he’s not known for exaggeration,” Organa says, a small quirk at the corner of her mouth that might be a smirk, if a very bitter one.

Hux inhales slowly, keeping his eyes in contact with hers, but feeling strangely hesitant about it. He finds an excuse to look away when a sudden, familiar glean of anger brushes against his mind before disappearing again. “Ren seems to have finally noticed.”

“Oh, he noticed some time ago,” Organa says, voice low and serious. She draws his eyes again as she lifts a hand, holding up a single finger. “Just do one thing for me, if you ignore the rest of it. Though I know you won't.”

Hux’s jaw flexes, teeth grinding hard enough to send prickles across his nerves.

“Tell him you don’t find the scar so grisly,” Organa says, mouth pinching downward in something that could possibly be labelled discomfort.

Hux blinks slowly, uncomprehending and then suddenly surprised, perhaps even little upset, but not strictly certain of the reason. He’s implied far worse over the last few years, though the difference might be that Ren never seemed to actually believe him, but now he had and it wasn’t even him. “You used it.”

“The opportunity arose,” Organa says, raising her head to glance outward toward the market, a single eye narrowing. She looks back to Hux, lifting her chin, “I’m not proud of it, and I’d apologize to him myself if I could. In fact, I might, but that is for later.”

Hux can already feel Ren approaching from somewhere behind him, his absolutely thunderous presence ungently re-occupying his mind. Organa just as quickly slips away from Hux and into the parallel crowd, her small form easily disappearing among the twi-lek. She possibly could have blocked Ren until she was off-planet, perhaps even easily; letting Hux go was a peculiar sign of good faith.

Ren is so irate that Hux surprised half the bazaar isn’t suspended mid-air, and he makes no secret of himself as he shoves Hux into a neighboring wall from the back. Hux clicks his tongue, rubbing a hand against his shoulder and turning around. He catches Phasma’s eyes a few paces behind Ren, her concern quickly being overcome by irritation. She’s possibly decided Ren was overreacting, and is currently unhappy about being pulled away from the traitorous actions she was undertaking.

Organa had said that Phasma initially reached out through the infiltrator, but that doesn’t mean she’s not currently in contact now.

“You’re aware you were the one who walked off to begin with,” Hux says, turning his attention away from her and looking to Ren, harshly narrowing his eyes.

“You disappeared,” Ren snaps, pushing in close and glaring as he attempts to menace at full height. He’s panicked more than angry, hands clutching at the space over Hux’s shoulders, small tendrils of Force reaching out but nothing physically making contact.  “It was like you were never there; like the space you occupy had been filled with comfortable nothingness – ”

The throbbing anxiety is so powerful it has Hux’s stomach rolling. Without dwelling too much, he slowly reaches up, taking Ren’s shaking hands, and guides them downward until there are ungentle fingers clawing hard into the back of his jacket and digging into his shoulder blades.

“I have never been just some aberration of your mind, Ren,” Hux says, speaking quietly and swallowing tightly at the subsequent wave of appeasement. He keeps eye-contact with Ren, barely noticing it when the large hood slowly obscures the rest of the world like blinders, only acknowledging the warm pressure of Ren’s forehead against his own.

Ren exhales slowly, breath palpable even through the fabric of his mask. They’ve hardly ever been this close without durasteel and cruelty between them, and that warm crawl beneath Hux’s skin has turned into a prickling rush; he lets his hands settle hesitantly on Ren’s sides, fingertips slipping just barely beneath the disjointed swaths of fabric.

“You know what happened,” Hux says, his voice low and firm. He is certain of this; he can feel the unnatural prodding as Ren tries to search further, looking for a better, more sensible explanation.

“I don’t want to believe it.”

“You underestimated her,” Hux says, accusing despite having done the same thing. None of his intelligence had ever described Organa as more than an unusually talented strategist, granted one with seemingly endless drive, but there had certainly not been mention of Force abilities. He never heard any scrap of a hint that Skywalker’s twin was just as dangerous as the so-called Jedi savior.

Ren inhales, a stab of frustration striking heavy and his hands curling somehow tighter. “She hid it beneath other strengths.”

“How convenient that no one in the entire Galaxy knew,” Hux says, feeling jaw creak as he flexes it and then grinds his teeth, his erstwhile shock at Organa quickly being eclipsed completely by something more vicious. “Including her _own son_.”

“I’ve never suffered you like this,” Ren says, turning his head and breaking eye-contact. He doesn’t move away in his shame, instead shoving in somehow closer until their faces are pressed together from temple to jaw. “Your fury is substantial.”

“Of course it is,” Hux mutters, and the sharp edge of his cheek shifting against Ren’s is an undeniable distraction. He doesn’t even have the natural benefit of using Ren as a parallel; his anger is growing, but still too tinged with an unsettling relief. “I do not appreciate being taken by surprise, and it has been happening entirely too often.”

The wrath is thick through the bazaar – or he is spreading it, he doesn’t know anymore. He knows there are fights sprouting up: leashes being broken, mild frustrations turning to aggression, buried offenses suddenly remembered and acted on.

It opens up opportunity.

“Get off,” Hux mutters, exhaling slowly with a deliberate squeeze at Ren’s sides. The position isn’t so much terrible as the opposite, but his self-control is waning and his mind is slowly narrowing the options of action without his approval.

Ren complies after another heavy thrum of presence drifts through Hux’s mind, rough fabric of the scarf scraping ungently against Hux’s cheek as he pulls back with a soft pang of hurt. He could feel it too then, how absolutely wonderful.

“I’d prefer taking this to whatever section of the market you’ve already decimated,” Hux says, resigning to tolerate the way Ren is refusing to move any more than a few centimeters away.

A flash of an empty landing pad finds its way into his consciousness, stone and durasteel crumpled to pieces and obstructed by pair of fallen pillars. The image is impressive, if consisting only of property damage and the few witnesses present are unharmed. It’s really no worse than something Ren would have done at the First Order, which inspires an odd disappointment that Hux promptly ignores; he refuses to stoop so low as to care about something that petty.

“You realize I don’t care if you kill,” Hux mutters, sweeping past Ren and out into the greater area of the market, feeling a certain amount of relief as he leaves the dark alley behind. He glances sideways, catching sight of Phasma in a heated argument with a slimy-looking ugnaught about the price of a blaster. “Except perhaps her, who I will punish myself.”

“You won’t,” Ren murmurs, pausing to pull the hood further over his face again, the cloak having been skewed slightly by recent events.

Hux grits his teeth tight, choosing to ignore Ren as he instead scowls at anyone who dares look in his direction. He needs to get himself under control, but he is finding it far more difficult than usual to bury this under rationality.

He jerks as an unfamiliar hand rashly grabs his upper arm, the yellow and suction-cupped fingers easily folding completely around his bicep as they try to pull him in some direction. He reaches back and snaps the quickly-grabbed butt of his blaster into the nose of the creature, watching as they rear back and start muttering pained curses in Huttese.

“This trader has been following us through the market,” Ren says, reaching forward and physically grabbing the Rodian by their neck and hoisting them upward until their feet are off the ground, the despicable being’s hand falling off of Hux’s shoulder in shock. “The induced anger must have given them the bravery to attempt to steal you.”

“Is that another joke?” Hux asks, scoffing sharply in disbelief and looking up to properly glare them in the face, studying their wide, guileless eyes. “Are you really such an absolute moron, Rodian scum?”

“Djeeno will buy,” the Rodian says in disjointed Basic, squirming under Ren’s hold. “Offer good price, even disobedient. 30,000 credits.”

Hux clenches his jaw, detecting no hint of a lie, and looks to Ren while absolutely seething, “Have I been deferring to you?”

“Dense and thoughtless,” Ren says, which isn’t exactly a negative answer. He tightens his hand, forcing the Rodian into outright choking and gasping – he is absolutely wrathful.

“Drop him,” Hux snaps, raising his chin to as he scowls at the misguided Rodian. “Now, Lord Ren. I will handle him.”

The Rodian freezes, reptilian eyes going somehow wider as a swell of dread goes through them, then abruptly tries to struggle more. They reach out to attempt and claw at Ren’s face in desperation, but their long fingers barely brush against the hood.

“Ren,” Hux says, forcing his voice somewhere near inarguable.

Ren finally allows the Rodian to fall in a clumsy manner of all-fours, and they immediately attempt to scuttle away. Hux steps forward and stomps a heavily booted foot down onto the closest approximation of an ankle, grinding his heel into bone. The Rodian screams, terror leaking from every pore and reaching forward to grab at Hux’s foot, but end up stopping at the feeling of a blaster pressing into their face.

“Mistake!” the Rodian cries, cowering and still trying to pull away. “Djeeno tell no one!”

Hux sneers in disgust, tipping their long face side to side before re-centering the barrel and pulling the trigger without any further thought. The Rodian collapses immediately, limp body curling over itself and slumping sideways when Hux kicks a toe into its side. The amount of blood is disgusting, really – he should look into making a blaster that causes the same cauterizing effect as a light saber.

He glances over when he registers Ren’s anger quickly bleeding into disbelief, his stare as unsubtle as the body in the street.

“He’s never seen you kill,” Phasma says, apparently having returned to them sometime during the altercation. She appears to have taken the blaster without payment. “Personally.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, aware that his time with Ren has been marked enough with those around him suddenly and conveniently disappearing that he’s lost the need to do it himself, which has been rather remiss of him. He turns and pushes his way toward the accessway of the market, glancing with some satisfaction at the upheaval present in nearly every booth or shop covering his recent actions.

“You’ve never seen battle,” Ren says, his quick words perfectly mirroring the rush of curiosity and confusion. “Where did you learn to kill with such ease?”

“Did Skywalker’s little Jedi Academy not include mortal combat?” Hux says, scoffing neatly and then slowing to a languid walk, stopping completely when he reaches the rubble that was once a launch pad. The entire block is cracked in half, splintering outward from an unseen impact in the center, even the pillars are cracked straight down their durasteel cores. Ren’s power really is glorious; a shame that it’s also in the hands of a man with such an inefficient temper.

“Your Academy doesn’t either,” Ren responds with a rush of prickling irritation, doubtlessly at the mention of his past. Though, perhaps it was the unabashed insult, however unspoken.

“Not officially,” Phasma says, a bitter smirk rising at the corner of her mouth.

“The Academy once had a very small window of acceptance before they legitimized the current Trooper policy,” Hux says, not feeling the need to explain a rather distasteful transition from a farce of an orphan program to outright kidnapping. He had been ten at the time, and hadn’t even known the details until far later, but he was burdened with the responsibility of legacy all the same. “Though most seemed not to know what they were handing their children over to.”

Hux had only managed to change the Officer and Enlistment policy through a rather eager council of officials that had been too fearful to speak up. It never occurred to him until now how rather abnormal it was that not one of them had been over twenty-five standard years, and himself only seventeen. Perhaps, the only reason Snoke allowed it to pass at all is the belief his goal had been achieved, and his council too inexperienced to realize it.

“Supreme Leader knew you would suffer there,” Ren says, an abrupt swell of anger rushing to meet Hux’s own still simmering ire. “An insult to your body as well as your mind.”

Hux clicks his tongue sharply, refusing to feel gratified by the implication of compliment. He knows exactly how he looks, and it was only worse when he was a child, but his ability to garner physical leverage has always been impeccable. He may have also been affecting their minds, he’s no longer certain of it; regardless, he won every match that determined his life.

“The water delivery the last?” Phasma asks, glancing to Ren with a curious tilt of her head. She harbors a rather blatant skittishness every time she glances at Hux, refusing to catch his eyes.

Phasma might not know exactly what happened, but Hux is certain she knows _some_ of it.

“Yes,” Ren says, turning to face the ship with an odd disquiet surrounding his thoughts. “We have enough to get where we need.”

Hux finds himself frowning, anger having mostly been suppressed, but he’ll allow some mild displeasure. “Surely, you’re not serious?

“The Resistance has the most similar goals to mine,” Ren says, speaking low, and eyes equally downcast as he looks somewhere near the landing gear of the freighter.

“Similar?” Hux repeats, huffing under his breath in disbelief.

“When did you decide this?” Phasma asks, her voice piqued with interest. She doesn’t seem offended or upset in the least, and her curiosity comes off almost as encouragement.

Ren tips his head up, piercing gaze just visible under his hood. He glances first to Phasma, then to Hux, brow furrowing tightly. His anger is roiling again, dissimilar to the typical seething and more like the panicked ire he’d suffered so recently in the market. “Snoke used my legacy against me – he convinced me of lies and had me carry out orders that he knew would only ever bring him power. I want him dead.”

Hux scowls back, glaring and trying to bury his skepticism behind irascibility before it’s detected. Ren has very recently done appalling things to defeat the Resistance, and now he’s assumes to up and join their misguided cause? He’d been hiding on a desert planet not two days ago, and still looks the part despite the cooler climate of Kala’uun. Hux isn’t a moron, he knows this sudden urgency to enact vengeance has absolutely nothing to do with Snoke.

Hux raises his chin, narrowing his eyes, “Are you really that frightened?”

“Aren’t you?” Ren snarls, apparently giving up his dramatic argument and straightening his shoulders as he balls firsts at his sides. The sound of more stone cracking can be heard somewhere to their left, a deafening snap and then quieter crumbling. “She could find us again, perhaps easily; she has the knowledge to remove me from your mind completely, to block your power. She may decide to do it in her urgency to get me to help her.”

“Organa hasn’t suddenly become Snoke, you egocentric fool,” Hux scoffs, overlooking the return of his own anxious anger as he begins to walk quicker, eager to get into the freighter and off of this planet. The open infinity of space is looking rather attractive, at least out there he can imagine he’s not within the same kilometer as that bloody woman.

“And Phasma,” Ren says, practically spitting the name like venom. “Dares to admire her.”

“I do,” Phasma says, her earlier hesitance practically disappearing as she exudes an undeniable self-satisfaction. “She has the two most powerful men in the First Order fleeing with a single act. It’s extraordinary.”

“We are not leaving because of her,” Hux says, glancing at Phasma with a sharp frown. His eyes drift past her to watch a group of twi-lek travelers make a wide berth to a neighboring ship at the mere sight of them. “I just murdered someone for essentially no more reason than irritation, which I’m certain is illegal on Republic planets; Ren, meanwhile, has twice over earned himself a large bill for destruction of property, and I no longer need to pay for it; and you? I’m not certain yet, but treachery is certainly on the short list.”

Phasma scoffs, opening rolling her eyes and turning on her heel toward the lowered ramp. “No need to give a lecture on it, General.”

Hux sneers at her back, begrudgingly following stepping up behind and ignoring the strong, childish urge to push her.

Phasma yelps unexpectedly, tripping forward and onto the freighter entrance in a mess of limbs before falling to the floor of the hall. She rolls over, baring her teeth, and looks straight past Hux. “Lord Ren.”

“Captain,” Ren says, his voice dull, but doing no good to hide the slip of condescension. “You seem to have tripped.”

“Tripped,” Phasma repeats, then suddenly the smirk is back, oddly and equally haughty. She stands slowly, brushing off unseen dirt from her trousers, and then turns to continue toward the control cabin, making a show of glancing at the floor. “Yes, I can see it. Your cowardice seems to be littering the hall.”

Hux reaches back before Ren can do more, stopping him with a firm hand in the middle of his chest. “After we’ve left the planet.”

Ren exhales slowly, jaw ticking, “Fine.”

“Do keep in mind that we cannot afford any more injuries than pride,” Hux continues, speaking low as he turns to enter the ship.

Ren agrees through a slight brush of amusement and an exaggerated image of Phasma at the bottom of the second level stairs, silently following Hux into the control cabin and sitting in one of the passenger seats. He becomes oddly frustrated just a moment later, seemingly unable to understand how his own limbs work judging by the way he keeps kicking.

Hux spares him a quick glare as he turns while readying for takeoff.

“My legs are too long,” Ren mutters, a quick flicker of looking down at much shorter legs in what seems to be the same seat going through his mind before quickly replaced by the current pair.

“How tragic,” Hux mutters, suddenly uncomfortable and rotating his own chair to stare determinedly down at the panel of switches, flicking the one to warm the thrusters. It doesn’t matter where he looks, of course, but he would like to stop getting flashes of Ren’s bafflingly pleasant childhood.

“The seat moves back,” Phasma says, turning in her chair and reaching under Ren, pulling something that has him falling backward by force of a particularly strong spring. She scoffs at his affronted expression, “Not everything is worth the nostalgia.”

“I do not feel nostalgia,” Ren says, the petulant lie as clear as the transparisteel cockpit in front of them. He slumps down as if to make a point, knees knocking again into Hux’s copilot seat.

Hux twists sideways to glare back at Ren, but his eyes catch on a small group of twi-lek and droid security enforcers standing at the pair of cracked landing pads, one of them gesturing angrily forward with a sweeping hand and then pointing violently at the freighter. A pair of them turn around completely, as if to move in their direction, but are instead forced a step back as Hux hits the thrusters and forces them airborne.

“How much do you believe that cost?” Phasma says, eyes drifting just slightly before returning to the front once the group is out of sight.

Hux scoffs low in his throat, flicking on the shields as he guides them out of portcullis, just in case the city sends something after them. “When have you ever cared?”

Phasma hums low, idly amused as she looks at Hux sideways, then pointedly backward at Ren. “Just curious how long it will take standing next to Kylo Ren for my bounty to become as high as yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Around the second time I saw the movie, my mind warped the interpretation of the ‘bring our son home’ line, which was a plot for a much darker fic. However, in this one, Leia isn’t directly influencing the future, something that would imply outright responsibility for Han, but she has (very, very begrudgingly) accepted her markedly large role in it. 
> 
> Her ability is inspired some by flow-walking - which isn’t in any games, so my interpretation is largely influenced by the internet - if anyone was curious for a precedent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ship’s computer trills in excitement as it assesses and accepts the flight plan. The subsequent ready-bell of the hyper-drive resonates at a pitch that now seems oddly like a warning than the usual familiar reassurance.

The twi-lek are either too cowardly or too apathetic to send a security ship, so the freighter makes it out of the tunnel and through the atmosphere with little more event than Ren periodically forcing Phasma’s seat backward on its spring at every marked burst of the thrusters. She barely reacts initially, merely moving her chair back into place, and if it weren’t for the rush of irritation and the way she pinches her lips together, Hux would think she believed it a mere fault of engineering.

The fourth and final time, just as they reach stability in open space, Hux has barely enough time to twist his own seat aside to avoid a waving arm when Phasma reaches backward, at the same time as her chair surges, to smack Ren hard into the paneling. Hux stills for a tense moment, verifying that Ren is merely being difficult and not about to throw Phasma against the transparisteel, before he turns around and grabs the loose collar of Phasma’s jacket to tug her back into her seat.

Ren is outright smug about the entire juvenile ordeal, seemingly pulling his scarf down only so Phasma can see his smirk.

“I liked you better miserable,” Phasma says, straightening her jacket as she leans back in her seat with a lazy glare. She is truthfully more amused than anything else, the feeling sparking sharply under her forced irritation. 

Hux rolls his eyes, standing and making his way to the back of the control cabin with an idle thought of tasting that bread. He’s clenches his teeth in surprise when he’s forced to stop, slowly looking down to find Ren’s hand curling in a vicelike grip around his elbow, and then glances back up to watch with some measure of resignation as the door pauses halfway open, then slowly presses closed with Hux still on the wrong side.

“We don’t know the coordinates to D’Qar.”

Hux gives Ren a narrow, irritated frown, studying the ludicrous attempt at ignorant on his face. “Odd. You were the one who attained them.”

Phasma scoffs, her disbelieving laugh reverberating behind Hux. “I believe he meant to say: you do the flight plan, General, I’m terrible at maths.”

Ren suffers a spike of irritation, letting go of Hux’s elbow just as he kicks out in her direction, a wave of Force hitting the seat violently enough that the base creaks under the pressure. Phasma weathers it with a stubborn expression, bracing herself with both feet and arms crossed over her chest.

Hux exhales heavily, ignoring the collective immaturity as he looks past her and at the console with a bitter twist of his lips. He would rather not go to D’Qar at all, and now he’s being convinced to chart the path. “I cannot believe you both are so incompetent and still in command.”

Phasma scowls, her irritation now markedly intended more for Hux than Ren. “You built a weapon that shot an actual sun through sub-hyperspace.”

Hux blinks, honestly taken-aback as he settles her with an incredulous look. “Is that what you think it did?”

“It’s naïve to expect us to be so similarly practiced with hyperspace calculations to a planet with no trade routes,” Ren interjects, his voice low and almost hostile – a childish attempt to curb Hux from explaining the proper interpretation further. He truly has no appreciation for anything designed in the last millennium.

Hux glances between Ren and Phasma once more before conceding with a grimace twisting at his lips; forcing his way out of the control cabin won’t mean he will never step foot on D’Qar, only that it will be a few minutes later. He exhales in resignation as he turns to sit back down, taking only a few moments to recall a carefully memorized map to gauge the fastest route that won’t end up with them in the center of a star, then a moment longer to realize the second-fastest, and steadily types that one it in.

The ship’s computer trills in excitement as it assesses and accepts the flight plan. The subsequent ready-bell of the hyper-drive resonates at a pitch that now seems oddly like a warning than the usual familiar reassurance. He barely has time to regret it, eyes reflexing flicking sideways as Phasma reaches out at the noise, giving no other warning than a quick glance upward as she flicks up the flimsy guard and presses the hyper-drive activator with a sense of childish urgency.

Hux braces himself for the moment of acceleration, hands curled around on the edge of the console as the ship stabilizes in hyperspace, then slowly turns to glare over at her. “You are far too eager to meet your demise.”

“Is that a personal threat, General?” Phasma says, standing with twitchy, amused smirk. She huffs a badly-muted bark of laughter as she turns around, gesturing rudely over her shoulder as she exits the control cabin.

Hux grits his teeth, twisting his chair until he can face Ren completely, and gives him a narrow look. He won’t stoop to asking out loud, to verbally acknowledge his own pettiness, but that is not something he has ever had to worry about with Ren, as much as it is usually infuriates him.

Ren raises his eyebrows, eyes going glassy for a short moment before he smirks sideways. “You ceased intimidating her any around age eleven.”

Hux furrows his brow, shoulders falling as he glances in the direction of the main deck, trying to remember anything evident that may have looked particularly weak at that age. He can hardly recall specifics, except perhaps a particularly abusive training block. 

“She grew taller than you,” Ren says, explaining without prompt and standing with his eyebrows raised, as if to make some sort of point. “Apparently it is a long-held point of pride.”

“How petty, she has not even four centimeters,” Hux says, feeling a grimace form at the corners of his mouth. He forces himself away from the thought of Phasma’s baseless egotism, instead recognizing Ren’s with a glare upward. “Nor do you.”

Ren shrugs, turning and walking out of the door with a touch of dissention, “Doesn’t matter. You’ve never intimidated me.”

Hux rolls his eyes, scoffing under his breath and rising to follow Ren to the main deck, trailing behind the thick haze of arrogance. “I know when you lie, you fool.”

Phasma glances over as the door slides open, standing at the conservator door and wearing a dissatisfied look on her face. She drags the bread out and holds it up, “What is this?”

“Surely you recognize bread,” Hux says, raising a condescending eyebrow at the loaf, then shifting his eyes over to her.

Phasma hums low, seemingly mollified by the weak endorsement as she tears off a small corner piece and hesitantly places it on her tongue. She frowns a moment later, chewing slowly and glancing back up, “It’s odd.”

“It was baked by a twi-lek,” Hux says, begrudgingly admitting to himself that he is perhaps wary of eating any himself. Phasma doesn’t seem to find it particularly dissatisfying, but he’s seen her eat protein paste without complaint.

“How did you know I was lying?” Ren says, his earlier smugness inexplicably fading into anxiety as he hovers near the stairs.

Hux barely looks over, only catching Ren’s deep frown before ignoring him in favor of shoving Phasma’s indelicate hands away when she tries to force him to sample the bread. He grimaces tightly, half an instant more away from outright pushing her. “Leave it.”

Phasma hums and eats the piece, giving him a short glare. “You need to eat.”

“How did you know?” Ren repeats, louder and more piqued. He is tremendously fretful, practically vibrating with it about a subject that is firmly established.

Hux turns with a patronizing tilt of his head, narrowing his eyes sharply with irritation. Ren knows exactly how he knew, unless something has happened in the last thirty seconds that erased years of memory.

“I was blocking you,” Ren snaps, hands going tight at his sides and mouth turning down into a snarl. He narrows his eyes, “Tell me what I am thinking.”

Hux frowns and glances over at Phasma for a moment, catching her similarly bemused expression. He chooses to entertain the odd request if just to avoid a tantrum. “A trooper – Phasma’s helmet. The one she cracked.”

Ren rears back, eyes going wide as he takes a precarious step backward on the edge of the staircase. His mind is an eruption of mortification and dissatisfaction, and he seems to be so caught up in it that he cannot even speak, turning around and downright fleeing to the lower deck.

“I hope his saber finds something inexpensive,” Phasma says, tearing off another, larger piece of the bread and shoving it in her mouth.

“I’m sure Organa is used to paying for it,” Hux says, grimacing tightly and attempting to ignore the smog of renewed turmoil setting his mind prickling, instead focusing on his disgust at Phasma’s newly discovered taste for twi-lek food. At this rate, he’s sure it will be gone before he can bring himself to eat any.

“I doubt he was with her long enough,” Phasma says, catching his eyes and adding a significant weight to her expression. “I read the Jedi did the same with Force-sensitive children as we once did with Troopers.”

Hux frowns in disbelief, glancing away from Phasma with narrowed look toward the lower deck. “How utterly duplicitous of their reputation.”

Phasma shrugs, setting the bread down and opening a stray crate that soon reveals itself to be full of rations. “The excerpt described it as a great event, being chosen, but I somehow doubt the legitimacy. We have Troopers that would say the same.”

“Snoke suddenly seems an impeccable example of a Jedi,” Hux mutters, reluctantly taking an offered serving as Phasma tears into another for herself.

Phasma scoffs, her mouth twisting up into a sharp imitation of a smirk. “The program is your legacy, not his.”

Hux glances at her witheringly, narrowing his eyes as he steps away and toward the stairs. He hadn’t meant  _that_  program, but he’s unwilling to explain that to Phasma, so he stays quiet and continues his path. He is not half-way down the steps before he stops, however, turning at the waist as he looks back up at her, “If he goes into some sort of craze – “

“I will ignore it,” Phasma interrupts, giving him a severe look. “His madness is your responsibility.”

Hux glares for a long moment, then concedes with a frown and a short exhale.

The lower level is undisturbed aside from a slightly crooked sofa, and Hux turns on his heel into the ajar door of the quarters Ren outright refused to enter just hours earlier. The room is surprisingly intact, Ren apparently forgoing the usual destruction and falling straight into sulking.

Ren barely glances over from where he’s curled up on some type of viewing bench, watching the monotonous slurry of hyperspace through a large, circular transparisteel window. The whole of the area is a fair amount dusty, Ren’s clothing causing actual trails with every movement, and Hux wonders with some disgust at the last time anyone saw fit to clean in here.

After a few more long moments of silence, Hux drags his eyes up from criticizing the upkeep, raising an eyebrow.

“I am already growing weaker,” Ren spits, gesturing outward in front of his own head and with a violent shake of open palms. “If I cannot even do this simple act.”

“I’m not sure why you are under the impression you’ve ever done it before,” Hux says, squaring his feet as he stands over Ren, needlessly tilting his head to the side as he attempts to get a better read on him. He is concentrating on some image of a rocky island formation, which is entirely unhelpful.

Ren glances to him with a sharp stab of surprise, then an upsurge of anxiety.

“I have not had a single moment of reprieve since I met you, barring the notable instance today,” Hux says, keeping his voice acerbic, but suddenly finding difficulty in it. He has an odd urge to reach out, but ignores it; he won’t stoop to unsupported reassurance. He has no way to determine any signs of weakness, only knows that this isn’t one of them.

“It would not have felt as if I was gone,” Ren says, baring his teeth as he sneers upward with a jab of condescension.  “It would have been… As if I were far away. Muted.”

“Which only happens if you are far away,” Hux says, pinching his lips into a sarcastic smirk and gesturing lazily at the area around them. “Even so, not particularly effective. Clearly.”

Ren takes a short breath, looking downward and suffering a flash of utter misery. “Then you felt it. On Starkiller.”

Hux grimaces at the memory, allowing himself a moment of weakness as he stretches his shoulders backward until his joints crack, and tips his head in confirmation. Ren had not seen Han Solo’s last moments in any manner remotely similar to reality; he saw an insurmountable challenge, warping the impression Hux had until later reviewing security footage featuring an unhappy old man. He swallows, struggling to cover the ill-timed thought with a rush of exasperation, “I didn’t especially appreciate being distracted by you while an entire planet was imploding under my feet.”

“No,” Ren murmurs, looking away as a pinched furrow creases his brow, lips twitching as he presses them together. “I thought you wouldn’t.”

Hux steps forward slightly, really only a simple shift of his feet, and scrapes teeth hard over his lip. He could simply do it, but the misery is not too markedly out of control, despite Ren acting out as if he’s under some huge burden.

“Not now,” Ren says, hunching down further into the corner and turning completely away with a sharp twist of his middle. He hides the rest of his head with one hand, threading his fingers through the loose hair at the top. “Perhaps if it becomes too painful.”

Hux scoffs under his breath, straightening his back as he resolves to leave, to return upstairs and suffer this with a particularly rough round of that strategy game. It’s already painful; it has always been.

A hand reaches out and grabs Hux around the wrist, abrupt enough that Hux feels his elbow creak dangerously. Ren is suddenly insistent on something, now looking upward with beseeching eyes and a feeling of demand, but all Hux can determine is that Ren is staring at him and thinking of little else, which he is fully aware.

“Fine,” Hux sighs, taking a flimsy guess as he holds out the bowl, permitting Ren this one small childish act. He had brought it down here with half a mind to taunt Ren, but has since lost his appetite. “You are making your own tomorrow.”

Ren stares for a moment longer and then looks down, letting go with an odd spike of intense discontent, taking the bowl with a slow pull backward. He holds it between his hands, shoulders falling as he turns back to the viewing window, his wretchedness somehow growing worse. “You still cannot read specific thoughts.”

“No,” Hux says, a scowl crossing his face, though he’s not certain himself if it is due to the reminder of his ineptitude or the complete lack of gratitude.

Ren shrugs, barely a twitch of his shoulders, “Good.”

~

Hux finds himself staring at the wall for a second sleep cycle in a row, though this time it’s his own mind forcing his eyelids to snap open and into an unwelcome alertness. His breath is markedly quick, heart beating against his ribs as if he’d just been on an aggressive run. The mood quickly worsens further after a chill sweeps down his cheeks, betraying their wetness and even that of the pillow against his face. He swallows when he hears a noise from somewhere near the door, and exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. “Did you at least wash?”

“Yes.”

“The water is a needless luxury,” Hux mutters, trying to distract his rattled body by thinking about the opulent refresher. “Wasteful.”

“Better than sonic.”

Hux turns his head, squinting his eyes in the dark and quickly seeing an expanse of pale skin. Ren seems to have forgone completely redressing after his shower, bare-chested with his dark hair freed from the plaits and visibly bisecting his bare shoulders. “You’re going to catch a chill.”

“It’s no worse than the Citadel,” Ren says, tipping his head up and causing his eyes to glint off the dim light from the hatch. “You were having a dream.”

Hux swallows, still feeling the chill against his cheeks and resisting the urge to scrub at them with the bedspread. The words were clearly more warning than question – was it the one of his parents again, or something worse. He could snap at Ren to quiet, to let him sleep, but instead he waits in sick curiosity. 

“You have it often,” Ren says, practically speaking to the ceiling for as little that he acknowledges Hux. “You’re small. Snoke is torturing you after you’ve disappointed him. I’ve never seen the cause.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, exhaling slowly and relaxing back into the cot. “Could be any number of instances.”

“He splits the skin of your chest with the Force, until it’s so painful you think it must have reached your heart; you look down as your ribs split apart and open like wings,” Ren says, his voice even and almost uninterested, betraying nothing of the storm of fury and misery. “Tonight, rather than him, it was me in my mask. Using my saber.”

Hux feels his teeth clench in surprise, one hand twisting fabric so hard around his wrist that he feels as if it will go numb. He doesn’t recall the dream, let alone the apparent presence of Ren, but he does remember the original event: Snoke’s displeasure and the way it inspired such shame, his mind seizing entirely as his body attempted to rip itself apart at the whim of a single man’s hand.

“The scarring is imperceptible,” Ren says, turning his head and removing the glint against his eyes, making him seem near wraithlike under the shadow.

“I’ve never been truly certain it actually happened,” Hux says, an irksome part of his mind insisting he would still able to feel the sharp, burning split down his chest if he tries hard enough. “I woke up in the Academy, unharmed.”

“Days later.”

“Many,” Hux says, forcing his eyes closed and sighing deeply. “How often do you invade my dreams?”

Ren is silent, a near negligible hint of guilt blending with his still-churning emotion. He shifts against the door, exhaling hard enough for it to be clear that it was deliberately audible.

Hux quietly ignores him for as long as he can, which proves to be shorter than yesterday as he peeks open his eyes and glances at a pair of switches adjacent to the bed. He reaches upward, flinching at the cold as it hits his skin, and flicks one of them as he braces himself for the movement. The cot soon stretches out into something twice as large, gears still in relatively smooth working order despite obvious disuse.

Ren is up before the bed is even fully trundled out, easily crossing the short space in less than two wide strides. He hovers for a moment, anxious at the unspoken invitation being misinterpreted. It is already quickly becoming almost improper, with the dark and the lack of dress, and Hux is uneager to voice anything at all.

After a few stubborn moments longer, Hux rolls his eyes, gesturing shortly with his hand before completely retreating back under the bedspread. It’s not as if they’ve never done this before, though that was more a symptom of their minds being suddenly and Forcefully bound than any sort of amicability between them.

Ren sneers back lazily and shoves his hair back with a single hand, a nervous gesture that even Hux has rarely seen him employ. Practically, it does little good, falling right back over his forehead as he moves to crawl in near the wall.

The newly emerged portion of the bed is still absolutely frigid, the air between the walls not particularly concerned with heating, and Hux doesn’t hide the smirk as Ren practically jumps backward at the feeling of it against his hands. Ren glances over at him, a scowl pulling at his mouth, and lifts a single hand that is soon accompanied by a slight pressure against the right side of Hux’s body.

“Do not be a fool,” Hux says lowly, glancing down at the raised hand and then glaring back up to Ren’s almost glinting eyes. “Are you that eager to suffer the floor again?”

Ren sighs heavily, dropping the hand and lingering for another few moments before he moves forward again. He crawls on all fours like some kind of child, eventually shifting and lying prone on his back with a full body shudder against the cold. His entire demeanor is somehow both offended and thankful, stretching as much as he can on the space he’s given.

“Now stop watching me sleep,” Hux mutters, rolling over on his side, away from Ren, and closing his eyes.

Ren shuffles around, pulling at the bedspread. It takes him an odd while before he responds, the curiosity on the edge of his mind for a distractingly long time. “Why?”

Hux sighs heavily, feeling the pressure of his own exhaustion closing in. “It disturbs me.”

Ren hums low in his throat, surprised and something akin to embarrassed, as if the reaction had never occurred to him in all of his self-absorbed life. He shifts on the bed again, shaking the entire cot with his entirely too-large body, until the warmth of him can be felt going all along Hux’s back.

The presence is oddly comforting, a thought which Hux hastily discards and instead concentrates on the benefit of shared heat. Space is cold, after all, so he cannot be blamed for taking advantage of it.

~

Ren sleeps like some sort of droideka, curled up improbably tight against the world. His head is pressed up against Hux’s ribs so hard that it’s almost painful, even slightly itchy with his emergent beard, and he doesn’t so much as flinch at the sudden flood of light in the room from the circadian alarm, maintaining a steady exhale against Hux’s exposed side.

Hux debates more forcefully waking Ren, but ultimately admits that the position is not especially unpleasant, and allows himself a few seconds of staring absently at the ceiling. He glances down hesitantly, taking a short moment to confirm Ren isn’t close to awake, only feeling vague impressions of misery and a flutter of too-quick images, before he lets a hand hover over the edge of Ren’s forehead, even wondering himself what he’s about to do.

Hux slowly, gently swipes a stray lock of hair, revealing Ren’s eyes and a small portion of the scar. He inhales just as he allows his hand to drop lightly, cradling most of Ren’s forehead and letting his thumb brush against the uneven skin of the scar.

He strokes a few more times, idly surprised Ren hasn’t violently awoken at the unfamiliar touch, and forces himself to stop. He shouldn’t be doing this – it isn’t so much ill-advised as absolutely stupid.

Snoke, from what Hux remembers, was rather obsessed with physically isolating his apprentices, and he doubtlessly forced Ren into that relic of a chastity pact. Hux is technically under the same oath, but the foremost difference was he had been a six-year-old and unaware of what he was saying, and had in fact abandoned that nonsense soon after Ren had gone on his own to the Citadel for the first time.

Entirely coincidentally, as Lt. Anteca first arrived as a superior to him on his first official assignment at around the same time. Admittedly, he had also been a somewhat existentially lonely, which had actually been Ren’s fault, but it’s not as though he is currently still embroiled in some lovelorn affair with the fellow.

In fact, Anteca practically disappeared six months later.

Most of Hux’s dalliances had ended that way, which is rather odd now he’s given time to think about it. He had seen it as something of a blessing, not being particularly interested in them aside from physically and aiming to evade them anyway, but a few never should have been able to vanish so easily, and especially not from a ship so often in hyperspace.

Hux glances downward, realizing that his hand has somehow acted without his express permission and begun stroking Ren’s hair again, and has another epiphany. He lets his hand tighten, pulling Ren’s head back sharply and jolting him awake.

Ren blinks slowly in sleepy surprise before quickly beginning to feel a wave of worry, as he  _should_  be. 

“Have you been disposing of my paramours, your giant wretch?” Hux snaps, tightening the hold on Ren’s hair, letting a few locks pull sharply around his fingers until Ren grunts in pain.

Ren murmurs something unintelligible, confusion blending around the worry and then settling into something like general lethargy. He stretches, shoving his head further into Hux’s palm before letting his body fall lax again, moving as if to shove in close again with one of his hands spanning across the length of Hux’s shoulder. “I was sleeping.”

“Answer me,” Hux demands, attempting to use his free hand to stop Ren from being so distracting.

Ren swallows against the hold, blinking slowly and frowning with that irksome confusion. He even clumsily shoves further into Hux’s mind before he answers. “Where did you think they went?”

“I never wasted time thinking about it,” Hux says, jerking Ren into a more ungainly position, his head practically bent backward and throat completely exposed. “I ordered them to avoid me, as I should have done with you.”

Ren stares at him for a few seconds, until a bizarre twitch begins to cross his lips and he scoffs low in his throat, his neck convulsing under the strain. He’s amused and practically saturating the room with it.

Hux frowns hard, taken aback and still on the offensive.

“Ordered them,” Ren repeats, his odd look settling into a smile that stretches until it seems to finally meet an end at the far side of his cheek. It’s an entirely unfamiliar expression. “Lower rank fraternization is disallowed, General Hux. Especially when you use it against them.”

“Worse is killing valuable personnel for personal and entirely imagined slights,” Hux says, shaking Ren’s head once more before letting his fingers loosen. He pulls his hand back with a compulsory sneer, trying to force himself into being much angrier.

Ren has nothing approaching an amorous claim, yet Hux still feels damnably flattered about it all. More infuriating is that Ren doubtlessly meant it in a more possessive manner than a jealous one, which strikes displeasure somewhere he’d rather not investigate too closely. Perhaps, he had even been ordered to do it by Snoke.

He leaves the bed a few moments later, pointedly covering Ren’s face with the duvet so he’s spared from looking at him for even just a few moments. The cold is unexpected enough that he actually shudders, stepping lightly until he’s pulling at clothes quick as possible.

“Every single one thought they could use you,” Ren mutters, sitting up on the edge of the bed and not even bothering to look guilty; he is more aggravated than anything. “Even that lieutenant you’re thinking of.”

Hux pauses, looking down at the jacket he’s holding and feeling a clasp stab sharply into his palm. He hadn’t cared for Anteca so much as tolerated him – he had known Anteca was using him to rise in rank, or perhaps even get to Snoke, but at the time he’d been amicable to entertaining the lie. He had no idea it was an execution sentence.

Ren lowers his voice, finally feeling some amount of shame. “I actually didn’t intend to kill him.”

“I imagine if anyone could accidentally kill, it would be you,” Hux says, pulling on the jacket and neglecting to fasten it, refusing to look at Ren as he turns toward the door. It opens far too slowly, but he still manages to get out and then into the refresher before Ren can try to catch him.

Ren’s outfit litters the place like the drapes it once was, strung out across the shower door and his boots nearly tripping Hux as he tries to get to the sink. He manages to largely avoid setting them on fire as he readies himself for the day, but he thinks very hard about ripping them into even worse shreds in lazy attempt to ruin Ren’s, already questionable, peace of mind.

Phasma is a fount of barely hidden amusement when Hux leaves the refresher, and her eyes follow him as he walks across the deck toward the stairs. “What has got you in a mood? Aside from the obvious.”

“Possessive twats,” Hux says, refusing to look back as climbs the steps and enters the galley. He grabs a piece of the bread and some water, slamming the glass onto the hologame table.

Phasma’s prickling amusement transforms sharply into a thorn of surprise. She raises her voice as Hux moves out of her line of sight, “…I didn’t know you two were ever involved?”

Hux sneers at nothing, tearing the bread into smaller pieces before he begins to eat it. The taste is suitably plain, but still only in small doses is it even tolerable. 

Before, he had the First Order and his work to keep him from dwelling on this nonsense, but now? The Resistance will definitely stick him in a cell, and he’ll have little more to do than think while acting as some sort of useless touchstone for when Ren gets too  _difficult_. He’ll be forced to reflect on the fact he has never held any power over his own life, and never will in any capacity. It will be like this damned freighter, discovering at odd turns that every one of his decisions was restricted.

It could all become so much worse if Organa was telling the truth about his mind ultimately succumbing to the Force; the literal pressure of his sins deliberately breaking him. A few moments of it felt like it was tearing his head apart, and any longer may have actually killed him.

He should have let Snoke execute him. It’s not as though Ren actually absconded with intent to spare him, after all.

Hux glances down when something slides across the side of his hand, and he realizes he’s reopened the scrapes in his palms, tearing them open further and letting the blood soak into the bread and then down onto rug at his feet. He drops the spoiled bread to the table with a grimace, holding his hands palm up and watching the blood pool in the cracks.

He inhales sharply when he inadvertently catches sight of Ren’s boots, looking up and finding of a truly miserable expression.

“You’re losing control,” Ren says, voice low as his guilt spikes so high and sharp that it’s painful. “I don’t know how to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Hux says, hesitantly curling his hands closer to his chest. “My control is fine. I’m allowed to be angry.”

“You’re not angry,” Ren says, scrapping his teeth over his lip in a way that looks deliberately painful. He still hasn’t looked away from Hux’s hands. “It’s been worsening since the Hosnian incident. I’m sure even Phasma knows, with as much as you’ve been affecting her.”

Hux scoffs lowly, standing and shoving Ren to the side with an elbow as he goes into the center of the galley to find some sort of towel. He should locate a med-kit, too, but he doesn’t even know where to start that search. He glances over sharply when Ren yanks open a drawer with a weighty tug, revealing a small collection of soft-looking dishrags.

Ren pulls out a dark one, wetting it slightly in the sink and taking one of Hux’s hands without so much as an implication of permission. He gently drags the rag over the small cuts, wiping at the blood with a few sharp, piercing stings until the hand is completely clean.

A little too clean.

Hux flexes his hand, staring at the unmarked skin. “…I didn’t know you could do this.”

“I have never tried,” Ren says, brow pinched tight as he takes the other hand and treats it to the same procedure. “I read about it, once.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, watching with some fascination as the cuts disappear into nothing now that he knows it’s happening. The healing is slightly painful, but no more than the initial injury. “Preferable to bacta.”

Ren hums agreement, carelessly dropping the dirty rag into the sink. “It purportedly requires much concentration for larger wounds.”

“Shame,” Hux says, looking away from his hands and catching the scowl Ren gives him in response. “Your mind is a mess, Ren. It’s no secret.”

“Yours is becoming one,” Ren says, jaw visibly ticking as he glances across Hux’s forehead, as if merely looking at the vessel would reveal some explanation.  

“It’s simple stress,” Hux says, unsure of why he’s attempting to deny the earlier existential worry – Ren could hear everything.

Ren shakes his head shortly, “I won’t let her put you away. If the Resistance wants me –”

Hux scoffs, worrying at the inside of his cheek with a sharp gnash of his teeth. “Disgraced Sith Lords aren’t in the position to make demands.”

“I am no Sith,” Ren says, an odd twist crossing his mouth, his mind sharply verging on humiliated.

“A title means little when it comes to the result,” Hux says, turning away and leaning back against the counter, both hands behind him against the edge. “Whatever you called yourself, you still committed to the same cause, to the same actions. To your Dark side.”

Ren doesn’t say anything, looking away as he tightens his mouth. He doesn’t seem to understand the logic, still holding Snoke’s teachings a little too close to the heart. 

“Organa told me I was going to go mad,” Hux says, looking down and staring at a patch of discolored floor. He should handle it on his own, and he’d really prefer to, but Ren seems to already be suffering the consequences of it, which is terribly ironic given the past years. “Gave me a bit of a taste.”

Ren glances up sharply, eyes narrowing in trepidation.

“Apparently, years of emotional repression don’t count for a lot when you kill that many sapients at once,” Hux says, raising a hand and rubbing hard across his brow. He hasn’t had a headache in a markedly long while, but that probably won’t last. “Or perhaps it is only stress. I imagine I’ll just have to find out.”

Ren almost seems to lean in before abruptly dropping his shoulders, hands practically pinned to his sides with as tense as his arms look. “She could help.”

“We both know that would never happen,” Hux says, scoffing and giving Ren a sharp imitation of a smile.

“She is vengeful,” Ren says, glancing to the side as he concedes the point with a long exhale.

“I’m sure she’ll find a way to make sure you don’t feel it,” Hux says, trying not to feel too bitter. He unintentionally predicts an outcome where a good-intentioned General Organa finds some lovely, kind person and inflicts Ren on them. Perhaps that bond would be more natural; it would definitely be healthier, at the very least – not that Ren deserves it.

He swallows tightly and curls his hand tighter around the counter edge, suddenly finding the idea much more unwelcome than he anticipated. He shouldn’t care what happens with Ren; he has no reason to, and it’s not as if he has any right.

Ren responds with a sharp wave of resentful frustration, his hands twisting into the fabric at his side. It’s the sort of emotion he has before equipment needs replacing.

Hux glances up, dragging himself out of his thoughts and back into the conversation. “Oh, come off it. You don’t care.”

“I was never permitted to before,” Ren says, scowling deeply and staring into Hux like he’s trying to say something more complicated; words that match the sudden wrenching feelings of an unrecognizable sort of guilt. “Snoke said that once I displayed… some amount of affection that you would die.”

“And does that mean you’re suddenly going to start?” Hux says, voice dipping acerbically as he tips his head to the side with a harsh sneer. He doesn’t want some sort of sudden pity for a consequence he arguably brought upon himself.

“It means I’m going to stop thinking I don’t,” Ren says, expression pinching as he feels a heady surge of embarrassment mixed with fury. “I refuse to knowingly suffer what happened on Kala’uun a second time. I know you think the same.”

“And you don’t believe she’ll let it happen as some sort of revenge?” Hux says, raising an eyebrow and scoffing low in his throat. “If the context were reversed, I would.”

“She isn’t so needlessly cruel as you,” Ren says, suffering a passing spike of sharp misery before leveling out into something more unreadable. He shifts in closer, lifting a hand and setting it on the counter just next to Hux’s and practically leaning in, “Is that all you would have done? Cut her off from him?”

Hux blinks, momentarily confused until he realizes Ren thought he meant the death of Solo, rather than of the entire Hosnian system. He inhales, skimming over the fact even he knows that is a bizarre question to ask about one’s own parents, and shakes his head shortly, “A mere mirror of the pain would hardly be enough.”

“Yet she stood there and instead invited you to join her,” Ren says, taking a short breath and glancing up to make eye-contact.  “She is powerful, but not heartless.”

“And you?” Hux asks, daring to lift his left hand to tap sharply at the underside of Ren’s chin, letting his knuckle scrape against the stubble. The lack of upkeep finally has Ren looking his age. “If I had fallen on Starkiller.”

“I don’t think I would be aware enough of what I was doing to make a choice,” Ren says, voice lowering into something almost like a murmur. His eyes are strangely unfocused, hovering somewhere near Hux’s chin. “I’d let the rage consume me.”

“My ship would still be in pieces, is what I’m hearing,” Hux scolds, and hesitantly shifts his hand, strangely pleased that he can easier allow his thumb to trace down the complete length of the scar. It’s really not so bad, almost makes Ren’s expressions rakish instead of obstinate.

Ren is nervous, but doesn’t seem to be reacting vindictively to it. Instead, all he does is get a little shaky, slowly exhaling, “What are you doing?”

“Satisfying curiosity,” Hux says, pulling his hand back and forcing it back down to it’s place at his side. “Does it hurt?”

“Not physically,” Ren says, eyes following Hux’s hand as it curls around the counter, scraping his teeth along his lower lip.  He glances back up, unexpectedly intent, “When I said I hadn’t meant to kill him… I did not mean it was an accident.”

“Oh?” Hux says, lifting his chin as he looks away, feigning disinterest and entirely aware Ren knows it.

“I knew you… appreciated him; I was forced to listen to it for months,” Ren continues, his voice veritably accusing as he shifts just slightly, until the fingertips of his hand on the counter brush up against the side of Hux’s. “And then I met him, and he was so much older than you perceived; he only saw you as some sort of pretty trophy… So I strangled him. He wasn’t worthy to give you orders.”

Hux feels his mouth twisting into a grimace, the minor respect he’d held for Anteca withering up and disappearing as he reflects on the allegation. “He wasn’t using me for my rank, then.”

“I don’t believe he knew you were in Snoke’s council,” Ren says, his fingers continuing to edge against the counter surface. “You were – We were young.”

“What an unmotivated bastard,” Hux says, humming low in his throat as he remembers a few instances of Anteca downright humoring him. He had been so sure it was to get to Snoke, which was objectively forgivable.

“It had been… Satisfying,” Ren says, lifting his other hand and looking down at it, flexing it in that familiar gripping gesture. “He was one of the first people I killed that I actually wanted to.”

Hux sighs, raising a patronizing eyebrow as he watches the ridiculous motion. “Do I even need to ask if that is your reason for continuing the practice? Simple satisfaction.”

“They were weak,” Ren snaps, his hand dropping and curling into a fist at his side. “Ill-intentioned and unworthy of your attention, even fleeting as it was.”

Hux bites back a smirk, deliberately avoiding any attempt to identify exactly how that makes him feel. He should practice not welcoming that sort of appreciation, if just for preparation of being around the Resistance and their Jedi.

The fact Ren was prepared to get rid of others who slighted Hux with not a moment’s hesitation is something he would have taken for granted if he had known. Especially when he was young and vying for an indisputable rank at the First Order, one without the direct influence of Snoke.

He ignores the part of his mind that insists he’d have instigated it just because he felt like it – to experience the power it awards him.

Ren feels another surge of intention and trepidation, perhaps even an uncommon affection, but he remains firmly in place, perhaps even more motionless. His eyes are lowered, perhaps on Hux’s chin, but more likely on his lips.

Hux raises an eyebrow, slightly tilting his head. “Are you ever going to do it, or just stand there?”

“I – Haven’t,” Ren says, shoulders visibly tightening and a tic developing in his jaw.

Hux stares, scoffing low in his throat with a considerable amount of surprise. He expected there to be similar stories to Hux’s of attempted extortion or use for status, and is a little irritated at this complete lack of even simple effort. He recalls Ren as terribly awkward, not untouchably ugly – it seems the New Republic is still finding ways to disappoint him.

Ren scowls, clearly reading his thoughts and pointedly glancing away, threatening to become over taken with the power of his own anxiety.

“You’ve been waiting for years and yet still cannot do it?” Hux says, lifting a hand and nudging Ren’s jaw until he is forced to look back at him.

“Not years,” Ren mutters, huffing shortly and absolutely lying through his teeth. He glances between Hux’s eyes and his lips, then attempts to divert his gaze despite the position. “Stop being cruel.”

Hux would deny being similarly uneasy, but it’s there itching under his skin. He feels like he did in Kala’uun, as if inevitability is suddenly in his hands, and swallows shallowly before closing the few centimeters between them as perhaps he should have yesterday.

Ren gasps, far more surprised than he should be considering his inability to stay out of Hux’s mind. His lips are soft, if slightly chapped, and the scratch of his beard is less irritating than Hux usually finds them, though that is probably only in this particular case. However, once Ren recovers from the shock he is far too forceful, pressing a little too hard and entirely too clumsy.

Hux smacks sharply at Ren’s cheek, pulling back slightly and narrowing his eyes. “Stop it.”

“What?” Ren murmurs, a hurt expression threatening to show on his face in addition to shadowing his mind. One of his hands has found its way to Hux’s shoulder, near managing to span across Hux’s collarbone.

“Stop being so overconfident,” Hux says, letting his hand soften, slipping across Ren’s cheek and behind his head, threading his fingers into that outstanding hair. “Use your ability for some good and listen.”

Ren exhales with a low huff, frustrated for a quick moment before leaning in with a pang of rare confidence. He takes his other hand off the counter and wraps it around the contour of Hux’s ribs, showing that he’s begun doing as ordered.

Hux leans in again, pleased when Ren tips his head to the side and perfectly allows their lips to slot together. He widens his mouth just slightly, taking Ren’s upper lip and encouraging him to open up, to divest himself of the chastity. Hux hums, allowing Ren to have some semblance of control, letting him lick apprehensive before Hux tilts his head at the same time he shoves Ren up against the counter, nipping sharply his mouth.

It is arguably one of the better kisses he has experienced, and the small thread of the forbidden is an unexpected point of titillation. He has never so much as permitted true fantasy, always aware that Ren was untouchable, as well as ever in his mind, and now they’re kissing under some sort of mildly rational decision.

Hux lets the hand not clutching at Ren’s hair slip over his broad shoulders and down a bicep, squeezing at the flexing muscle as he attempts to shove in somehow closer. He gives little notice as Ren shifts just slightly, busying himself with drawing out his tongue, only to inhale sharply when wandering hands slide abruptly under Hux’s legs and lift him upward.

He bites sharply at Ren’s lower lip before rearing back completely, tightening his fingers in Ren’s hair and giving him a severely unimpressed look.

“You wanted it,” Ren says, staring up at him with credulous eyes, broad hands tightening around the length of Hux’s thighs. His lips are positively red, bordering on swollen, and his mind is absolutely swimming with an unfamiliar fondness. “You’re fairly light – I don’t even have to use the Force.”

“Ah,” Hux murmurs, feeling his face heat up without so much as acknowledging how absolutely mortifying his mind finds it. He tips his head down, feeling as if he should try to hide it and knowing it’s impossible, “Yes, alright.”

Ren huffs shortly, leaning forward and biting at Hux’s lip as some sort of retribution for the earlier undeserved punishment.

An abrupt spike of foreign surprise shoves its way into Hux’s mind, rapidly coiling around his pleasant thoughts and tightening, and he knows Ren has felt it too when they simultaneously lean back and turn around sideways in curiosity.

Phasma looks absolutely furious, her hands on her hips like some sort of Academy teacher and a scowl on her face that would have troopers in tears. She exhales slowly, walking a few steps forward into the sitting area and making an odd circuit around the couch.

Hux has an absolutely insane urge to laugh, and the feeling is so unfamiliar that he’s not sure he has ever had it in his entire life. He has to twist his back to see her now, and gets a crawling feeling in the back of his neck and a flash of a theoretical image that makes him aware that Ren would rather Hux stop opening him up for attack.

“You’re in the bloody galley,” Phasma snaps, throwing Hux’s forgotten glass at them and barely reacting when it freezes midair. She marches forward a few more steps and grabs it, shifting sideways as the water falls and waving it at them like a baton. “This is not the time for you two to get your affairs together.”

Hux rolls his eyes, sighing heavily, and taps hard on Ren’s shoulder to make him drop Hux back to the floor. He turns as he runs both hands over the front of his jacket, abruptly glad that it is so long as to vaguely disguise anything even while unclasped. The situation isn’t particularly telling, per say, but Phasma is almost a sister to him.

However, Ren is practically cowering for all his size, and it has nothing to do with arousal. He seems to honestly believe Phasma is going to… do something. He doesn’t have a clear enough sight into –

A flash of Organa, much younger than she appeared in the alley, with a deep, undeniably disturbed frown.

Hux scoffs low in his throat, glancing backward and thinking very hard about how terrifically juvenile he believes that concern. He’s fairly certain Organa holds Ren’s potential choices in partners at a very low level of awareness, especially after everything else he’s already done.

Ren scowls, now furious and embarrassed, sending an image of the bazaar and it’s cracked landing pad in attempt to support his argument.

Phasma pointedly steps in right between them, essentially separating Hux and Ren with a shove, and props the glass in the wash rack. She turns around, glancing between them with piercing eyes and an undercurrent of disbelief, “We are due at D’Qar in mere hours and you two are defiling the woman’s ship.”

Hux opens his mouth for a short moment, sure he will find suitable retort. Instead, he finds himself closing it with a clack of teeth and a heavy exhale; they have been doing exactly as she described, but there is no call to be so aggressive about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phasma recounting the old Jedi customs does not necessarily mean they happened, only that no one knows anything about Kylo.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She looks different than I imagined,” Phasma says, reaching forward and pressing the accept button on the nav screen without bothering to even ask, just as she had done with the hyperdrive. She may as well be in command. “Roughly as intimidating.”
> 
> “She is older,” Ren mutters, his surge of anxiety slowly descending into something that could almost be likened to cynicism.
> 
> Hux glances sideways, watching a pinched frown form on Ren’s face. “Humans age.”

D’Qar is surprisingly green and innocuous for a planet surrounded by no less than thirty appallingly ugly New Republic ships.

Hux glances to the side, eyes catching on Phasma’s hand as she slowly reaches forward and engages the shields at full power. The lights flicker some in the cabin, but it is worth the peace of mind, though it could be futile against an enemy of this number. He doesn’t know the amplitude the shields run at, and he regrets neglecting to modify any of the offensive systems.

 _‘State your name and designation,’_  the speaker crackles, a small bust of a bith forming in front of the holodisplay. They visibly startle an instant later, the visible edge of their hands visibly clasping and unclasping at the front of their chest. ‘ _N-nevermind. Allow me to retrieve the General. …P-Please.’_

They hover a few moments longer until Hux sighs, forced to properly waving them off.

“Odd,” Ren mutters, the unease that had spiked at their arrival to the system shrinking into a slow roil.

Phasma hums lowly, her hands drifting away from the cannon controls. She is still in a heightened state of awareness, switching between suspicion and wonder in equal measure as she glances between the fleet of ships hovering in front of the freighter. None of them have made any attempt to contact, evidently leaving that to the forces on the planet.

The holodisplay connects without so much as a beep of warning, displaying Organa’s staid form, chin lifted regally and mouth in a firm line.  _‘Hux.’_

“I have done as requested, despite my better judgment,” Hux says, refusing to give even a rude greeting as he scowls into the holocam.

He stubbornly ignores the sudden, painful prickle of horror and anxiety that Ren suffers; the feeling persistent and pressing with no attempt at suppression. Ren has even moved physically further away, as if there is threat that the holocam will suddenly expand and encompass his image. The reaction is not unanticipated, and hopefully the shock will have dissipated some by the time they reach the planet’s surface, as the deal will be incredibly difficult to fulfill if Ren cannot even stand to have the woman look at him. Hux is fairly certain part of it will actually explicitly involve Ren speaking to her.

 _‘You’re cleared to land in the area we’ve designated for your people,’_  Organa says, turning to the side and pointing at something to an unseen party.  _‘I will have D’Lan transmit you the coordinates. We have gathered an Assembly for your arrival, and expect you within the next quarter hour.’_

“An Assembly,” Hux says, repeating the words slowly. It would seem these foreign ships are gathered here for him, which insinuates a trial that he is in no position to defend.

 _‘To be successful, our forces have to at least appear united,’_  Organa says, and even though the imperfect holodisplay, her countenance is firm and inarguable.  _‘In other words, you must meet them. All of you.’_

Organa’s visage disappears a moment later, accompanied by the friendly blip of coordinates being received by the ships computer as it awaits destination approval. The screen flashes in and out dimly, and Hux has half a mind to erase them and delay this farce of a meeting for as long as possible. He will not obediently take orders from an enemy, especially one that expects him to willingly submit.

The outright insinuation of holding his own forces is plainly baffling, and mismatches radically with the hint of an execution trial. He is not used to being this grudgingly ignorant – it is infuriating.

“She looks different than I imagined,” Phasma says, reaching forward and pressing the accept button on the nav screen without bothering to even ask, just as she had done with the hyperdrive. She may as well be in command. “Roughly as intimidating.”

“She is older,” Ren mutters, his surge of anxiety slowly descending into something that could almost be likened to cynicism.

Hux glances sideways, watching a pinched frown form on Ren’s face. “Humans age.”

Ren lifts his eyes, expression turning swiftly into a scowl over a visibly clenched jaw.

Hux smirks; it’s rather bolstering to have some of the resentment returned. He isn’t sure that he could handle this entire situation deprived of the familiar ache in the back of his mind. He hasn’t made any large decisions in years without it, aside from recently when he left the First Order completely, but that had itself to do with Ren.

Mostly.

“How many of the _Finalizer_ ’s crew would you think defected?” Hux says, turning to watch as the mountains sink into forests, then to plains, and all with the rich green featuring as an almost overwhelming presence. It seems a place that would soon get cold with the season, but is now content with overcast and sun. The Resistance base being located in a polar climate would have been too much a blessing.

Phasma looks to him, raising a single, amused brow. “Are you already consolidating punishments, General?”

“Regretfully the opposite,” Hux says, exhaling and running his knuckles on the underside of his own chin, grating against the grain of his thin beard. He wonders if he appears too improper, the very image of some slacking officer that he once would have reprimanded. “I’m curious as to how those rumors of evacuee defection were worded, if they would be so welcoming to my presence that Organa would have us see them.”

“You believe she may have said something about your impending arrival,” Ren says, his tone and mind flooding with skepticism. “As incentive.”

Hux tips his head back, giving Ren a chastising look. He  _literally_  lifted that from Hux’s mind.

“It could be beneficial,” Phasma says, letting go of the controls for a short moment as she tips a hand upward in consideration. “If we are truly to slay Snoke, it is advantageous to have an army that already knows their weaknesses.”

“Or useless,” Hux says, unsure of his own opinion on the aptitudes of those that would defect so easily. He did the same with similar timed deliberation, but he had an execution hanging over his head. The soldiers here could have easily returned to Snoke, to other commanders with far less disgrace in their status and uncertainty at their futures.

Ren hums lowly, a thread of trepidation winding its way through his thoughts. “Or it is a threat, depending on their capacity for resentment.”

“Many of them at this point are trained from birth to recognize the Order as the only option,” Hux agrees, aware that he is no different under the circumstances. He is still reluctant to be on this freighter; to be meeting this woman; to be plotting against Snoke. If he had the chance to return to his life as it had been a standard month ago, before Ren had even heard of Lor San Tekka’s location, he might very well accept it. “They may be so dedicated as to attempt propagate that vision through our deaths.”

“Perhaps,” Ren says, entirely too cavalier at the implication of an entire community of their own soldiers trying to kill him. Admittedly, out of the three of them, he had the least to worry about. “As of late, your image has been the one doing the broadcasting.”

“Poster boy,” Phasma murmurs, glancing quickly through the corner of her eye at Hux, mouth twisting into a mocking smile.

Hux answers the allusion with a severe look, though it does little more than encourage her amusement. The words had been one of the very first insults his fellows had spat at him, and considering his likeness has been featured on many actual posters, he should care less, but his subconscious heartily disagrees.

The next few moments of descending, as they pass over another patchy forest that turns again into a second, wider plain, are silent. The image in front of the freighter emerges slowly: a large compound of familiar emergency structures and smaller tents is lain out in routine practice formation, with enough shuttles and freighters peppered in to take up an area that has to be nearly a full square kilometer. A visible line of a few meters of grass is all that separates it from another area consisting mostly of bunkers, undoubtedly in use by the usual residents of the Resistance, and on the other side of that is an equally large gathering of New Republic ships and tents.

It seems Organa is operating some sort of precarious catch-all of refugees. He is honestly surprised this place has not already burned to the ground.

“The valley is practically full,” Phasma says, her voice hushed as if her surprise is some kind of secret. They are all stunned; it’s so thick like a fog in the control cabin that it is almost difficult to breathe.

“My faith in Order training has fallen significantly,” Hux says, leaning into the transparisteel to more easily determine an estimation of population. He could judge by tents or by shuttles, but that could be anywhere from three hundred to two thousand, depending on the density.  

“You should not be so surprised that they would continue to follow you,” Ren says, his voice almost as scolding as his sudden turn in disposition. He seems to be taking a bizarre notion of offense on Hux’s behalf.

“Do you believe my surprise should be that there are any left who don’t, after you’ve been getting rid of those whose opinions conflict?” Hux says, glancing at him sideways and hoping none of the underlying humor is too prevalent.

Phasma stills, her head slowly turning to Ren even as she carefully fits the ship over an open area, their much larger, oddly-shaped freighter fitting cumbersomely at the edge of a line of shuttles. “What was that?”

“Only if I’ve…  engaged in intimacy with them,” Hux mutters, ignoring the compulsion to outwardly frown with discomfort. The initial assumption of it as some sort of punishment put in by Snoke now seems utterly irrational after the last few hours of uncomfortable reflection, forced onto him as Phasma monitored their every move like a paranoid Academy instructor. “You may remember the consequences of that revelation.”

“Ah,” Phasma intones, her smirk returning as she begins to absentmindedly go through the deactivation procedures. “I seem to be in relative safety, then.”

Ren scoffs, with irritation purposely directed at Hux. “You give false impression to how you feel about it.”

“It was a vulgar abuse of power,” Hux says, snubbing Ren and busying himself with unbuckling himself from the seat. It isn’t a lie, yet it feels like one, the act twisted by Hux’s admittedly biased perception.

“I find it particularly admirable that you could carry it out with no one discovering it until now,” Phasma says, narrowing her eyes at Ren with a curious look. She is honestly interested, and hopefully not for the motive of a similar venture.

“I believed it to be well known,” Ren says, glancing away from Phasma and down at his own hands, pretending to be concerned with inspecting his saber. He is pleased at the approval, but nervous by it, probably at being unaware that he had been doing something that someone uninvolved – only Phasma, really – might find commendable. “I’ve not been known for subtlety.”

“Nor hypocrisy,” Hux says, if just to cut through all the unexpected geniality.

Phasma raises an eyebrow, a wry frown twisting along her lips as she turns her attention to Hux. “I may have to disagree.”

“It is a matter of respect, not interest,” Ren says, frustration prevalent as he defends himself, lifting his head to scowl at some distance through the cockpit. He lowers his voice, practically snarling, “Sycophants with no other value than appearance.”

Phasma scoffs, shoving her seat restraints aside as she leans over her chair arm, giving Ren a hassling look. “Lord Ren, are you saying that you respect Hux?”

“ _Enough_ ,” Hux says, standing and turning his back to the cockpit as a few curious soldiers begin to pause and gather around the ship. He is much less mentally prepared for this than he had consciously known, and he hadn’t anticipated any of his former subordinates to be here at all – aside from Phasma, obviously, but her subordination depends largely on the mood. “Phasma, I’m going to need you to deter any attempted entrance into the freighter while I gather my weapon.”

“Yes, sir,” Phasma says, dropping into her role with a short nod and suddenly little sarcasm. She stands and fastens her own blaster to a thigh, grabbing her jacket off the back of the copilot’s seat and pulling it over her shoulders just as the doors open to the hall. She is practically ecstatic at having rational orders.

Hux hums lowly, glancing down at Ren’s still form with mild irritation. “Wear the cloak. I refuse to deal with your diffidence while conducting diplomacy.”

Ren bristles with resentment once more, glaring upward even as he drags his scarf up over his nose. Hux raises an eyebrow, openly waiting until Ren stands and pushes past him, blessedly going along without more of argument.

Hux pauses and grabs a stray data-pad from the baffling location of on top of the conservator, slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket, then continues a few more steps for his blaster on the hologame table. He stops at the small mirror on the edge of the hall, inhaling deeply as he attempts to whisk his flyaway hair to the side and away from his eyes.

Ren is taking entirely too long for retrieving a piece of clothing.

Hux descends the stairs slowly, glancing to the side and catching the barely open door of the refresher. He sighs, debating a few moments before tapping the door further open with a knuckle, and on the other side finds Ren hastily doing some bafflingly complicated twist of his fingers with a few locks of his hair, leaving a tight plait behind. He watches as Ren reaches for the other side, managing a similar result despite the angle, and is reluctantly impressed by the talent. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Ren does little more than huff as he turns from the reflection to share a condescending glare. He suffers a sharp barb of melancholy, but overcomes it quickly enough as he reaches backward for his cloak and throws it over his shoulders.

Hux accepts the implication with a short tip of his head. Organa had practically advertised it on Ryloth, but he simply has a hard time imagining Ren suffering a lesson for something so innocuous – he could barely stand still even receiving orders from Snoke.

“It is a good exercise for Force control,” Ren mutters, his tone dangerously near sentimental; his mood apparently emboldened into memory by cover of the hood, or perhaps the looming events. “She wasn’t able to do it herself, but… she could describe it well enough.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, glancing upward at the mostly-hidden plaits for a short moment. It would be a good fine motor-skills exercise, even for a non-Force user. He frowns, mind catching up to his ears as he glances back to Ren’s eyes, grudgingly curious, “She could not?”

“Or she lied about not being able to,” Ren says, the visible bridge of his nose curling up tightly enough in frustration to nearly meet his brow. “Supposedly, not even Skywalker could tell what she was truly thinking.”

“Delightful,” Hux mutters, sighing under his breath; he had assumed Ren would be able to act as a stand-in for his own perception, as a sort of decoder, and the loss of that arrangement has Hux at an even worse position. He presses his fingers to his forehead as he turns and precedes Ren up the stairs, and only looks up when he finds Phasma leaning against the edge of the airlock while glancing through something on the data pad embedded into the door.

“It seems mostly to be our people,” Phasma says, hitting the door and initiating the ramp’s descent into the soft grass. “It is difficult to see every face on the cams.”

Hux nods shortly and takes another moment before pointedly exiting the freighter in front of her, stepping out onto the unfamiliar planet with a confidence he cannot quite manage to feel. He has the substantial presence of Ren and Phasma at his back, yet it still seems as if he is doing this alone.

Most of the soldiers and troopers stop and stand at attention at the sight of him, hands rigid at their sides as they reflexively line up on even centers. An officer actually bows at him, lowering their head, “General, sir.”

Hux gestures widely and nods at one or two of the officers, ignoring the condescension searing at his back from Ren. “Relax, you may proceed with your duties.”

A few of those gathered glance at each other nervously before hesitantly moving on, shuffling away with curious eyes, still attempting to subtly stare at him sideways. Many of them merely let their shoulders fall, nodding to him in respect.

“Sir!” Mitaka greets, appearing from thin air and pushing his way to the front of the crowd. His diminutive form practically vibrates with eagerness as his hands come together, clasped tightly at his front and making him look a paradigm of the perfect subordinate.

Hux raises his eyebrows in disbelief. He’s not particularly surprised Mitaka would attempt to follow him to such an ill-advised location, but he is curious as how the man had actually made it this far. Mitaka is very good at following orders, but he does little more than deliver messages or fetch caf, and Hux cannot fathom how he arrived halfway across the galaxy without meeting some predictably terrible end.

“Lieutenant,” Hux says, nodding shortly and raising a single eye brow. “Good to see you, as well.”

Mitaka beams as much as one can without actually smiling. “Unamo should be here in a few moments, sir, she was speaking to a –“

“Very well,” Hux interrupts, his sense of curiosity satisfied as he glances around Mitaka and at the still-gathering crowd. A few of them seem to have realized that Hux has no capacity to be their superior, sparing him little more than concerned glances, which is a relief upon Hux’s mind – it wouldn’t do for  _all_  of them to be such morons, continuing to follow a man who essentially left them for dead.

Unamo emerges from behind Mitaka with no little sense of aplomb, the entire crowd abruptly dissipating at her arrival with an odd sense of unease. She must have assumed command in his absence.

“Nice look, sir,” Unamo says, her voice comfortingly flat and uninterested even as her eyes scan over him. “Very delinquent.”

“Thank you,” Hux says, resisting the urge to straighten his jacket. He nods toward the camp and its towering emergency structure. “Have you been treated well?”

“Better than expected, but that may be due to our number.”

Hux tips his head in agreement; it would be remarkably difficult to exploit a camp this size, especially with every member a trained soldier. “How are supplies?”

“We had ample time after the alarm sounded to gather nearly 70% of the Finalizer’s provisions and stocks, and could conceivably survive on them in comfort for another year before we would need to start regulating intake,” Unamo says, pulling a data-pad from her jacket as she speaks and offering it forward, but Hux lifts a declining hand. She nods, unaffected, “We have hesitantly been conducting amateur trade since our arrival here, however, which could extend that indefinitely.”

“I also managed to grab your greatcoat, sir,” Mitaka says, leaning forward on the balls of his feet with a fervent bob of his head. He glances away a moment later, frowning, “It may be too warm for it.”

Hux hums lowly, then nearly loses his poise completely when he realizes how utterly bizarre that is – Mitaka wouldn’t have known Hux wasn’t a traitor. Or that, even as a traitor, he had ideas of ever seeing them again in some capacity. It could be seen as a hopeful bid for Mitaka’s own rise in rank, but, seeing as he is here and not with Snoke, Hux has an uncomfortable feeling it’s more to do with the infatuation.

He glances backward slightly at the abrupt wave of distaste Ren suffers, and cannot keep from reluctantly tilting his head in agreement. Regardless, he will appreciate having that greatcoat back in his possession.

“How many are here with you?” Phasma interjects, tactfully slipping in between Mitaka and Hux as she addresses Unamo. She still spares Hux a wry look, lips pressed together tightly to hide a smirk.

“Roughly four hundred are currently on D’Qar,” Unamo says, gesturing backward at the group of soldiers still mulling around and doing a large amount of unsubtle eavesdropping. “Most were wary of coming to the planet itself, but many are in daily contact from various systems. Estimations are upward of eighty percent of  _Finalizer_  personnel.”

“Eighty percent,” Hux repeats, reluctantly impressed at the evident loyalty. He had thought the few hundred here had been extraordinary, but the adjusted number would be well into the tens of thousands.

“Yes,” Unamo says, nodding shortly and straightening her shoulders as she folds her hands behind her back. “Many of us are wary of Snoke and… We prefer your judgment.”

Hux exhales, returning her eye-contact with a grim smile. “I do endeavor not to disappoint.’

“You won’t, sir,” Mitaka interjects, attempting to shoulder his way back into the conversation with a hesitant expression and an almost disturbing radiance of what may be labeled reverence.

Ren outright scoffs, crossing his arms and glaring like some sort of stroppy child as he fixes the expression straight at Mitaka, who reacts with little more than his usual flinching and forward stare. The exchange is so normal that it takes a moment for Hux to realize the significance, cast into light by recent events, and he nearly runs a hand over his face. How could he have been this ignorant about Ren’s envy when the consequences were so regularly on display? And of  _Mitaka_ , of all people.

Hux humors Mitaka with a nod, then shifts sideways, voice lowering to something nearly inaudible as he tips his mouth up toward Ren’s ear, brushing the loose hood aside with a turn of his hand. “I cannot have you being a child right now.”

Ren glances over tersely, brow furrowing as irritation and embarrassment prickles like thorns across his mind. The feeling continues to agitate until Ren’s eyes flicker back to Mitaka, and he’s overcome by a gratified sort of confusion as he realizes Mitaka is now staring at them both in bemused dissatisfaction.

The entire exchange takes almost too long, but actually saying anything could have lead to a much more uncomfortable exchange for everyone present.

“We are meant to meet with Organa right away,” Hux says, straightening and glancing back to Unamo with a small frown. She doesn’t care about any of the perceived dramatics that happen around her, and honestly it is a trait he appreciates considerably in a subordinate. “Has she notified anyone where that might be?”

“I believe it would be the command bunker,” Unamo says, turning on her heel and marching through the remains of their still-observing crowd.

Hux reaches out and snaps his fingers at Phasma, enjoying her spike of irritation, and then glances pointedly at Unamo. Phasma scowls back a moment and turns to a small group of ununiformed Troopers, nodding tightly as she makes eye contact with each of them before finally turning to follow.

Ren trails behind her at a slow pace, barely bothering to hide his reluctance from those around them, though it would only truly be visible to those who looked in his eyes, which admittedly may be enough of a guise on it’s own. He pulls his hood around his face further as they near the edge of the camp, nervously adjusting the scarf over his nose.

The few meters of separation between the camps are gridlocked by a line of soldiers, all Resistance by the logos sewn into their shoulders, and he can see from here that there is a similar blockade on the New Republic side. He glances over the figure of the twi’lek closest to him, then looks to Unamo with a raised brow.

“Organa put them in place this morning, sir,” Unamo says, a grim smile crossing her lips. “I believe they’re meant to keep peace for your arrival.”

“You and your council may pass, General,” the twi’lek says, gesturing backward with the downturned nose of their blaster toward the line of bunkers. “General Organa is with the Assembly in the most centrally located, F12.”

“Ren, Phasma,” Hux says, glancing backward with a sharp, significant look before glancing sideways at Unamo. “Thank you.”

Unamo nods, “Sir.”

Poe Dameron stands at the entrance, a pillar of anger and melancholy with his arms crossed against his chest, and every ounce of his considerable ill-intent is aimed at Ren. The anger seems to be about… something more than the torture; the particular flavor of wrath for a righteous sake holding an entirely different tang.

“Dameron,” Hux says, lifting an eyebrow as he slowly gestures at the door over Dameron’s shoulder with an upturned hand. “Either do something, or step aside.”

“I’ve been prohibited unless you make the first move,” Dameron says, lifting his chin and clearly attempting to appear taller than his laughably diminutive stature allows; he’s barely taller than Mitaka, but, admittedly, does have about twice the spirit.

Hux raises a single brow, glancing over Dameron in a purposefully obvious manner. “I will happily allow Ren the time to destroy what little you have left of your mind, but only after we’re done.”

“Me? I am fine. I’ve accepted what happened to me,” Dameron says, bluffing admirably even as his mind jumps from anger to apprehension at the mere mention. “I’m pissed about what you did to Finn. You left him to die.”

“Finn?” Phasma says slowly, mouth falling into a frown as her eyes slide sideways and narrow into a furious glare. “I believe that was FN-2187, wasn’t it?”

Hux nods shortly, biting back the sigh that threatens to escape at the realization that they seem to be about to have  _this_  conversation. Ren had done an admirable job keeping his evisceration of Phasma’s favorite little traitor a secret, but it would seem that well of luck has run dry.

“I – yes?” Dameron says, looking past Ren to stare at Phasma, obviously taken aback at her defensive tone. “His name is  _Finn_.”

“He should be perfectly fine, it was –“ Ren pauses, glancing to Phasma for a quick moment, then looking forward once more and lifting his head, which allows his eyes going straight over Dameron. “It should have been reparable.”

“Reparable!?” Dameron says, enraged mood re-igniting as he shifts forward on his toes with his teeth bared in a wrathful sneer. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Ben. Trust me.”

Ren flinches at the name, though only inwardly, and tips his head downward to settle Dameron with a piercing glare. “Do not call me that, Dameron.”

The door behind Dameron creaks open and a small hand appears on his shoulder, visibly forcing him to move aside. “Poe, please.”

Ren’s mild anxiety intensifies rapidly to a piercing level, so great that Hux cannot stop himself from raising one hand and pressing the heel of it to his forehead and screwing his eyes shut tight. Every mind in the whole of the area fades away without warning, only leaving Ren’s cacophonous wretchedness and ire to whirl through Hux’s mind, and the atmosphere is as if he was back on the  _Finalizer_.

Hux clenches his teeth for a too-long moment, until the physical pain brings him back into his own head, and then manages to force his hand back to his side as he peaks open his eyes with a weak glare. “Lord Ren, enough.”

Ren pays no heed, eyes firmly fixed downward at the ground as he audibly inhales and exhales at an increasingly rapid pace. His abject guilt thrashes at his mind like a violent windstorm, barely ebbing between too-painful spikes and recalled images of Solo falling, the feeling of a calloused hand on his face, and he seems legitimately about to have an episode just from the presence of one small woman.

Hux glances to Organa as Dameron hesitantly moves aside, taking a quick look over her for a moment before returning attention to Ren.

He knows acutely that Ren has a difficult time controlling himself, and how the tense line of his body wants nothing more than to use a saber to destroy something, so Hux can somewhat admire that restraint even despite being cross at the fact it is needed at all. He would pity Ren more if this wasn’t all his doing – if he hadn’t wanted to follow this moronic path to fulfilling vengeance against Snoke, then they could be literally anywhere else in the galaxy right now.

Organa can clearly feel what’s going through Ren, her face softening some from the stern look she wore initially into something just slightly exposed and raw. Her hands move to curl in front of her, but she doesn’t make any move further, making no attempt at any form of reassurance. She only stands still and simply stares almost feebly as Ren comes close to breaking apart right in front of her.

Dameron is visibly at a loss, hands shifting to somewhere near his blaster though not taking it out, and he begins to chew at his lip in what is clearly nervous habit. He glances rapidly to Organa, then to Ren, before landing on Phasma, apparently judging her earlier recognition of FN-2187 as some sort of camaraderie as he attempts to find solidarity now.

Ren mutters something inaudible and pained, glancing at Hux with a slight tip of his head, then reaching up to clutch at his hair under the hood with clawing fingers. His other hand grabs at the front of his own tunic, as if trying to loosen the already torn garment from his heaving chest. He seems to be attempting to grasp his own peace, but it keeps being lost under the turmoil at every indistinct flicker. He is losing himself to both the presence of Organa and the slowly seeping mortification of appearing so weak like this in front of her.

Hux inhales slowly, glancing to a silent, mostly composed Phasma. He concentrates and manages to capture some of that, even fleetingly, and it helps his own mind to slacken before he steps forward and deftly reaches out with one hand, letting it slip under the cloak and between the spasming fingers Ren has twisted through his hair. Hux exhales slowly as he drives away the extraneous wretchedness and anger, finding underneath a tight thread of blistering remorse, and then does his best to bury that stubborn emotion underneath an all-too impermanent mantle of quietude.

Ren relaxes by measures, his shoulders falling, then breath evening out as he finally opens his eyes. His hand hesitantly turns from his own hair and into the palm of Hux’s, lacing their fingers together for a passing moment before they both back way from each other at the same instant.

Dameron has stepped away, too, out of a quick shiver befuddlement, and he glances between Ren and Organa for a rapid few flickers of his eyes before staring at Hux in a begrudging sort of surprise. “…What in hells was that?”

“You shouldn’t do that,” Organa says, pinching her mouth into a small, tense frown. She looks briefly up to Ren’s obscured face, then back to Hux with narrowed, condemning eyes. “He will become addicted.”

“Much better to watch him suffer, then,” Hux snaps, tilting his head up so he can better stare down his nose at her. The lingering trepidation from the events on Ryloth is fading, bolstered by the implication that Organa would have preferred to watch a grown man – her own son, no less – tremble before her in misery. She is believed to be morally better than him, and yet is over again proving herself just the same. “Maybe he’ll run off and join another group of sympathetic adversaries – I believe all that is left at this point is the Hutts? Or Black Sun, they’re always looking for a good mercenary.”

“Hux,” Phasma murmurs, sending him a quelling, downright scolding look. “Watch yourself.”

Hux glares back at Phasma for a few tense moments before inhaling slowly, then forcibly purging his own ire with a long exhale. It probably wouldn’t do for the camp to descend into chaos before they even enter the door.

Organa spares the artificially calm Ren another long look before her shoulders fall, looking to Hux with a short nod, and turning to reenter the bunker. Dameron follows, fingers tapping against his blaster as he regards them over his shoulder for nearly the entire ten meters of a narrow hall.

“It’s no wonder the First Order can do what it does if he can stop people from feeling,” Dameron says, practically hissing to Organa under his breath as they enter a wider room.

“He can hear you,” Hux says, pausing and allowing an indolent Ren to walk between them before settling Dameron with a glare.

Ren huffs, lifting his head only to give Hux a wry look before glancing away once more. He’s settled at the side of a large circular holodisplay, one centered in a command center that soon reveals itself to be holding a great many more occupants than a building this size would safely suggest.

Dameron keeps up the steady glower for another moment, then allows the expression to fall as he lifts a hand to his chest and points sideways, lowering his voice. “Was that a laugh?”

Hux exhales shortly, turning around and leaving Dameron to manage the door or whatever it is he is meant to be doing here. Hux has no idea why he was entertaining the idiocy, even if for a few moments.

The gathered Assembly is of a variety of species and cultures, shuffling together uncomfortably in what seems to be order of height. Every one has their head – or approximation of – turned to watch as Hux approaches the edge of the display at Ren’s right, Phasma settling in on his other side; Organa takes the opposing side, standing alone as some mainstay of righteousness.

“I, General Organa, current interim Seat of the New Republic, propose an official treaty and allying pact with Hux of the First Order,” Organa announces, her hands firmly held behind her back as the room bursts into angry yells and then, bizarrely enough, quickly quiets into whispers. Every representative present is violently pining for a chance to express their inner hatred, and the shock and anger is suffocating in the too-small command center.

However, no one in the room directly speaks a word against Organa’s proposal, or even the abruptness of it, instead muttering to themselves and their fellows, and Hux is half-certain she is exercising her Force ability to influence them away from turning into a straight out mob. It would be an admirable use of skill if she weren’t so clearly misguided – it is much too late for anything approaching an alliance. He has already destroyed the Capitol and their fleet, and she has nothing more to offer him.

Hux remembers far too belatedly that he currently holds no power in the First Order, but that sheds her proposal in an even more nonsensical light. He lifts a hand, rubbing shortly at a temple as he narrows his eyes at the blank holodisplay. He still cannot get a read on her, and is unable to determine if this is all some elaborate trick on everyone present.

“Motion seconded by Pavik, of Talus,” someone says, a human with a surprisingly firm voice and intense surety despite the circumstances. Their mere presence is also surprising, as Hux was sure Talus and Tralus were roughly as allied with the New Republic as the First Order, if far less outright powerful.

The words seem to flare the hate in the crowd once more, though every member seems to be growing less violent and more resigned. Organa must have already made a circuit to the representatives prior to his arrival, which would be an unsurprisingly practical bit of statecraft. If no one attempts to argue any of the points, assuming Hux will do the same, then this Assembly will be blessedly short.

“We’ve learned significantly since the political upheaval after the Empire,” Organa continues, turning away from nodding to Pavik and reaching forward to tap at the holodisplay in the center of the room. She brings up a series of documents and records, displaying dated files going back twenty years. “We would work together, rather than one side abandoning the other to the Unknown Regions, allowing them to fester in their bitterness and build a weapon the size of a planet, designed by a man with a frightening mind for mathematics.”

Hux blinks rapidly in bemusement, absorbing the words and then refusing to feel pleased at the admission of New Republic failures, or at the arguably personal compliment. His mental acuity has never been called into question, although neither has it ever been acknowledged so blatantly by an enemy – nor a begrudging ally.

Organa pointedly raises an eyebrow in Hux’s direction, an almost mean smirk across her lips. “I can only imagine what you could have done for modern hyperdrives if you had been born to literally any other family.”

“Presumptuous,” Ren murmurs, and his voice nearly inaudible, but not so much that it goes unheard by Organa, whose eyes flicker to and away from him in clear surprise.

“Your points are noted; however, I am no longer a decisive member of the First Order,” Hux says, suddenly feeling as if he needs to make this abundantly clear. A few of his prior subordinates taking up space as refugees hardly constitutes command. “Supreme Leader Snoke ordered for my execution roughly a standard week ago. I am essentially unqualified to accept this motion.”

“Then you’re a secessionist group,” Organa says, downright dismissive as she begins separating recently dated files and slipping them over to him with a wave of her fingers. “Many of the refugees we received still believe in you, as you may have noticed, and more are making themselves known with each passing day. You seem to be a rather inspiring man to your people.”

Hux glances down at the display, hesitantly lifting a hand and scrolling through the now evident list. It contains too many names for him to parse out personally, and many of them are even troopers; he doesn’t understand their incentives, though perhaps the programming is just that strong. He swallows tightly, “And what of their belief in Snoke?”

“Snoke is why we’re gathered here,” Organa says, leaning in closer until her shoulder is practically pressed up against Phasma’s arm. Her voice lowers, almost conspiratorial, and he pauses observing the discomfort of the council to wonder why she hasn’t just outright invaded his mind through the Force. “Most believe your defection was calculated, and the media is helping spread that lie. In order to smooth the transition, I encourage you to act accordingly and continue being the incontestable face of your organization.”

Hux stares down at her for a long moment, then slowly straightens and turns his head to look over to where Ren is attempting to stoically stew in gradually re-emerging unease. He thinks as forcefully as he is able that Organa is  _absolutely mad_.

Ren glances over, grimace spreading across his face as he shrugs tightly, still refusing to look directly at Organa or, in fact, the entirety of the council. His height helps some, the rest affected entirely by some apparent forced delusion. He keeps sending flashes of an empty room, a silent space.

“I would prefer your conversations stay audible,” Organa interjects, straightening her back and folding her hands behind her back. The words inspire a swell of anxiety through the council, who seem to be now no more than silent, judging onlookers.

“Until I can parse out that you’re doing the same, I will not comply,” Hux says, raising his chin and ignoring the re-emergence of anger surging throughout the room. He hasn’t been a respondent in an outright hostile congress in a relatively long time; it’s still exhilarating. “I invite you to stop it yourself.”

Organa purses her lips, eyes narrowing only slightly. “I would prefer not to.”

“A shame,” Hux says, looking down and beginning to go through the files. The Resistance is relatively informed, having neatly compiled all material that has been deliberately leaked, along with a few more insightful additions that were surely added through FN-2187.

“The New Republic assembly moves next to sign an informal conditional non-aggression pact,” Organa says, again easily ignoring the multitude of rumblings in the present crowd. She lifts a data-pad from a waiting droid, already displaying a document with an official looking header, and tips it toward him, so that he can more easily predict her next words. “In brief summary: you vow to cease any attempts to eradicate systems with a different political view, cease the kidnap of human offspring, and cease any indoctrination of Force users. In return, we will aid you in a coup against Snoke. Afterwards, addendums will be voted on as seen fit. Does your present council agree?”

None of the demands are particularly outlandish for the situation, though he can hardly believe it. Most are policies put in place by long-dead officials or Snoke, aside from a particular act it would take years for him to recreate, and there’s oddly no mention of disarmament. He does narrow his eyes at the section plainly referencing the Dark side and only slightly more vaguely Ren, knowing the sudden roil of dissatisfaction coming from his left is entirely to do with it. 

“Captain,” Hux says, looking to his right and pulling Phasma out of her customary meeting-induced fugue.

“You already know how I feel, sir,” Phasma says, shifting her feet only slightly as everyone in the room seems to turn at the same instant to look at her. She tips her head, squaring her shoulders with a completely even expression that belies none of the mockery below it. “My allegiance is, as always, yours. I have faith in your decisions.”

Hux nods his head shortly, refusing to follow her line of vision toward Ren as she clearly seeks some sort of smug camaraderie. He cannot overtly express to her how irritated he is by her lack of somberness, not in this crowd, but she seems keenly aware of it by the growing satisfaction.

“Lord Ren?”

“I have reservations,” Ren says, altogether haughty before predictably reacting much worse to the Council’s attention than Phasma, and his shoulders hunch tensely with the weight of surfacing anxiety. He seems to attempt to distract himself once more with a hard glower directed at some gaudy droid that has rolled from behind Dameron, only to look sideways a moment later, making eye-contact with Hux as suspicion and curiosity spike among the Council. “However, I recognize the nature of the current session and will readdress them at a more appropriate time.”

Hux nods a pointed display of gratitude for the benefit of the Assembly, otherwise sending a stab of frustration that is immediately answered with a scowl. He ignores it and looks back to Organa. “Would you like to go first?”

“You’re already holding it,” Organa says, raising her eyebrows and pinching her mouth as if they’re participating in some sort of competition.

Hux narrows his eyes in response, resisting the urge to make an ill-timed comment on obvious parentage. He also suffers a sudden instinct to recheck the document, but his memory is superb and he can think of no way she could have changed it in good faith under the eyes of so many security droids. She is almost frighteningly shrewd, but the worst she can do now is have him sign his own death warrant, which he had already expected some just by landing on this planet.

He detaches the pen from the bottom of the pad, scrawling out a signature and then lowering his thumb to the scanner, watching both transpose onto the bottom of the document with a heady amount of trepidation. He takes a slow breath before handing the data-pad back, eyes fixed on Organa’s hands as her signature and print align next to his with disturbingly little fanfare.

Hux has just officially betrayed Snoke, and there is little more to show for it than a collective wave of relief across the room. He half-expects a Knight to appear and cut him down, but the only one present is Ren, who is still only sparing the barest off attention to proceedings.

“Well, sir,” Phasma says, lowering her voice as she glances to him with a raised eyebrow. “How should we proceed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for making Leia far more morally grey than she is in reality.
> 
> (PS, they would totally be executed - even as I was writing it, I was like 'this is completely out of character for the Galaxy...')
> 
> (PPS, please watch Ex Machina.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, sir,” Unamo says, standing from her table as Hux enters the large command tent, both hands behind her back as she tips her head forward. The space is outlaid with a variety of fold-out galley tables and appears to be both canteen and office, respective areas bisected by little more than a large cast-plast separator. “Dopheld was worried you ran off with Kylo Ren again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took an extra day mostly because I was SO NERVOUS about the sex scene, which is largely at the end if you'd like to skip it. I've only written like two others, and with completely different characters, so I am... Sorry for my ironic inexperience. 
> 
> Also, tags edited for accuracy.

“Ah, sir,” Unamo says, standing slowly from her table at the large command tent, both hands behind her back as she tips her head forward. The entire space is outlaid with a variety of fold-out galley tables, and appears to be acting as both canteen and office, respective areas bisected by little more than a large cast-plast separator. “Dopheld was worried you ran off with Kylo Ren again.”

Mitaka goes mortified and anxious, glancing sideways with appalled eyes at Unamo.

“Technically, I ran after him,” Hux corrects, turning his head with a low exhale when Phasma shoves right through him and toward the canteen. He watches Ren trail behind her for a few moments longer and looks back when the thorny feeling of scrutiny becomes too much, deliberately catching Mitaka’s peering eyes. “Could do with a little less staring, Lieutenant. It’s very rude.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitaka says, looking down and pinching his lips together with a sense of disillusionment. “We didn’t know you were a Force user.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, feeling a frown pull at the corner of his mouth.

“The rumor mill is twice as pervasive here, sir,” Unamo says, nodding with a sober sigh and a furrow of her brow, and glancing sideways at Mitaka with clear accusation.

“Dameron,” Hux says, exhaling slowly and resisting the urge to find Dameron only to throttle him. He was the only one who would have the sheer lack of class to spread this around.

Phasma returns with a wrapped sandwich clasped between her hands, pulling at it with an unrestrained sense of delight. The meat inside is not something that would have been on the _Finalizer_ as any sort of provision, and he raises an eyebrow at it before looking up to Phasma. She shrugs and offers a piece, but Hux lifts a rebuffing hand, even leaning away as she settles into the table next to him.

Ren follows behind her, holding a plate of… Disturbingly green something, which is another unfamiliar food item that has to be from across the camp. Ren lifts his head up, only to narrow his eyes sharply at Hux before sitting as far away as he can from the group while still being at the same table. His mood is still markedly level, and much of the irritation seems to originate from the food being called into question.

“Not maliciously, sir,” Unamo says, warily observing Ren with one eye even as she taps at something with her data-pad. She turns it around a moment later, displaying an oddly-angled image of Dameron hunched next to what appears to be an unconscious man. “He was merely overheard speaking to FN-2187.”

“He tells FN-2187 everything,” Mitaka adds, and his expression drops to something overly grave. “ _Everything_ , sir.”

Hux hums, pressing his lips together and glancing sideways at the canteen once more. It currently entertains an upward of fifty occupants, and many of them unrecognizable, and none of them in Trooper uniforms. He looks back to Unamo with a heavy sigh, reaching up and rubbing at his brow. “Could you make a note, please?”

Unamo blinks at him, a furrow of bemusement forming between her brows. “Of course, sir.”

“The Trooper program is no longer operational, at least from our perspective. Allow them to use their chosen names, or nicknames, or whatever they may call them,” Hux says, eyes darting quickly to a startled Phasma as he waves a dismissive hand in her direction. He could have done something more meaningful as the first act of his newfound power, but this will probably be appreciated the most in terms of morale. “It should be no more difficult than a change of designation in the current logs, as I’m sure you’ve not got any of the rest of the system running.”

“I will notify them, sir,” Unamo says, nodding once and proceeding to type it on her pad. She glances up after a moment, a faint frown across her mouth, “What of the ones without?”

“FN- Finn, was the only one on the _Finalizer_ without one,” Phasma interjects, leaning across the table with an indelicate tap at the edge of the data-pad with a piece of crust. “And he is no longer in the logs.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Unamo says, nodding curtly with a rare note of irritation at the crumbs crawling down her screen.

“And the SIMs, sir?” Mitaka says, raising his eyebrows with an odd sense of expectation. “Are they being decommissioned, too?”

Hux frowns in thought, contemplating a long-held ideal despite the current state of the Order making it largely unreasonable. “If we get facilities up, I want them opened up to every soldier, not only the Troopers.”

Mitaka’s expression and mood falls into something overtly horrified, and even Unamo and Phasma have both become markedly trepidatious. A scant moment later, Ren lifts his head from where he’s been concentrating on separating bits out of his green ooze, looking over only to give Hux a scolding look. He seems annoyed by the sudden spike in dismay around him, interrupting his relative peace of mind.

“On a voluntary basis,” Hux says, amending his declaration, and mildly curious as to their rationales against the matter. He had completed every simulation himself before officially sanctioning them, and hardly believes they warrant such an unanimously bad reaction. The simulations simply showed the realities of the battlefield and the horrid conditions under the New Republic – Ren had even helped, not that Hux would dare tell him it was appreciated.

“Ah,” Unamo says, looking down at her data-pad with a distinct wave of relief. “I will also make a note of that, sir.”

“Now we have that settled, why is the traitor still unconscious?” Hux says, glancing to the apparent gossip-monger, Mitaka, and raising his brow in question. “He should have been awake days ago – Ren injured him in a purely physical manner.”

“We don’t fully know what happened,” Mitaka says, looking to the side and frowning grimly at something at the door of the structure. “But the med-center seems to believe it is a more… mental matter.”

Phasma hums lowly, glancing sideways in a way that is undeniably suggestive.  

“My ability does not work like that,” Hux says, keeping his voice low as he leans toward her. Unamo and Mitaka might be aware, but he would rather not propagate rumor to the greater population of soldiers, especially on the subject of his limitations. He lowers his voice further, practically scolding, “You only want him awake because he was your protégé. We don’t need him.”

Phasma raises an eyebrow, tilting her head in a manner that could almost be described as primly. “I have no protégés, only promising students.”

Hux scoffs, nearly rolling his eyes as he looks back to Mitaka, sensing his nervous intent.

“Lord Ren?” Mitaka suggests meekly, glancing sideways with an edge of uneasy energy as he twitches his shoulders like he wants to defensively hunch them up to his shoulders. “Maybe?”

It’s interesting how Ren can be perceived the same dangerous creature at any mood, be it at ease or a vicious warpath. Or, perhaps, Mitaka has simply been on the wrong end of him too often to see anything else.

“He would more likely make it worse,” Hux says, shaking his head and refusing to even contemplate the idea. Ren is far more skilled at forcing people defensively into their minds than bringing them out, and has practically made his entire reputation on it. It wouldn’t do to have a Resistance member driven mad so soon after Hux signed a pact explicitly stating the they would not abuse any power.

“If successful, it would endear us to Dameron and the scavenger Force-user,” Unamo says, glancing up from her data-pad with an even, meaningful look.

Hux meets her eyes for a few moments, then tips his head in reluctant acknowledgement. The Order, or at least his portion of it, does need strong, true allies, even the ones he would much rather completely disregard. He grudgingly looks over to the end of the table, where Ren sits with head tipped down in a parody of concentration over his wrecked meal. He seems distinctly eager to stay out of the discussion now, judging by the prickling of disbelief at the turn of conversation in his direction, but not so much as to actually get up and leave.

The hood lifts a moment later, Ren’s sharp eyes peeking through the overcast shadow and catching on Hux. “Fine.”

Hux glances to Phasma, but she shakes her head, taking another bite of her sandwich. Hux nods and then stands with a gesturing nod toward the door at Ren, turning his back on the table.

“W-wait, you’re going now? Sir?” Mitaka says, his voice pitching with incredulity. “I don’t know if General Organa will – “

“The sooner, the better,” Hux interrupts, gesturing backward flippantly and keeping his gait steady, even as Ren seems to hesitate behind him for far too long. If Organa intervenes, he will only see it as proof that it was never meant to happen, which is, in some part, the goal.

Ren falls into step just as he nears the barrier, now manned by two guards rather than fifteen, and they are both so apathetic about Hux and Ren’s approach that Hux is almost offended by it. They’re also rather irritated by the oldest, gaudiest protocol droid that Hux has ever seen, cast in a glinting gold and inexplicably wearing a red arm. It lifts its arms in excitement when it catches sight of Ren, awkwardly toddling forward to greet his approach.

“I just had to see you myself,” a droid says, waddling side to side and cricking their front up at Ren. “You are so tall! Nothing like the Princess.”

“Move,” Ren mutters, oddly roiling with embarrassment rather than anxiety at this confrontation with a droid that clearly recognizes him from his childhood. He looks from the droid, then rapidly to Hux, and back again as his shoulders fall. “Threepio, _please_.”

The droid ignores him, looking to Hux, “And is this your friend? I’ve heard far too many unkind things about him.”

Hux stares, so taken aback that he somehow feels welcome to suffering through this interaction if just for curiosity’s sake. Ren seems to be suddenly concerned about Hux’s opinion, mentally envisioning very hard about shoving away the droid, apparently only called by it’s designation, into some hole, but then neglecting to actually do it.

“Sirs,” a guard says, legitimately rolling their eyes as they look away from the droid and at Hux. “I’ve been ordered not to let him cross the line.”

“I don’t want it to, either,” Hux says, managing to give the guard a firm nod even as he keeps most of his attention on Ren. He hopes this guard will leave so he can continue watching uninterrupted as Ren makes a fool of himself at a piece of ancient machinery. “This was just a stroke of ill-timed serendipity.”

The guard stares for a long moment, raising an eyebrow, and shrugs. “Alright, just don’t break him.”

The warning seems to be more of an endorsement, which is so peculiar that Hux has half a mind to do it. He could definitely make it more useful, after all – though it seems to be weaponized enough already, with this ability to reduce Ren to a chagrined teenager.

“Artoo will be so happy to see you,” 3PO says, apparently forgetting Hux and bending at the waist in excitement in front of Ren. “He would be here now, but the Princess forbade him to leave.”

“Ah,” Ren intones, sharing an image of a blue R2 droid from roughly seventy standard years ago. It looks about as mobile as a brick.

Organa probably did little more than put it behind a staircase.

Hux scoffs, leaning back on his heels as he glances over 3PO with new understanding. “How does a group with technology from the Old Republic manage to consistently triumph over anything? I am stupefied.”

“Luck, mostly,” Ren says, murmuring under his breath as his fingers twitch into loose fists. It seems he still cannot bring himself to push rudely past the cheery-looking droid, some absurd note of sentimentality keeping his hands at his sides and Force at bay.

Hux almost does it himself, but is interrupted by a wave of familiar anger brushing his senses that causes him to look up. He watches with emerging irritation as Dameron marches straight across the courtyard, radiating that ill-intent. “Oh, this fool.”

“Master Poe!” 3PO exclaims, turning around by inefficient measures and gesturing shortly at Dameron. “It seems I found him on my own, even without your help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dameron says, glancing narrowly over the droid and then starting to bodily shove him back toward the bunkers. “Go back, now. You shouldn’t be talking to him.”

The droid gives an affected scoff, grumbling unintelligibly, but doing as ordered, toddling away so haphazardly that it appears it may fall over when it hits a crack in the pavestones. The relief Ren feels as it disappears inside a bunker away is almost laughable, and Hux cannot resist the urge to smirk back when Ren turns to glare at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dameron snaps, choosing oddly to completely ignore Ren, instead stepping in close to Hux with a sneer. He seems to be attempting to conduct some intimidation tactic. “Go back to your side, _General_.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, looking down to make steady eye-contact with a furious Dameron before swiftly lifting a hand around Dameron’s neck and pressing hard, with the point of his thumb, at the small juncture of throat where collarbone meets together. Unsurprisingly, Dameron chokes and flinches backward just a scant second after pressure is applied, one hand circling around the edge of impact as he glares upward with a few visible swallows.

“I thought you were a Force user,” Dameron says, his voice overly hoarse just for that particular method of defense. He is putting up an act for some inexplicable reason – every cam droid has clearly seen Hux make the first move.

“I would watch your tone,” Ren interjects, but his voice low and unworried – almost bored.

“If you’re trying to start a brawl, Dameron, it will not work with me,” Hux says, glancing over to a pair of hovering guards, and then leaning in close to Dameron while pointedly lowering his voice to something more detached. “I can take the fight out of you, too.”

Dameron shuffles backward a step further, and a pinched, disgusted look settles across his face. He rubs at his throat a moment longer before letting the hand drop, sneering again, “Where are you going? There’s no reason for you to be out here.”

“Ren is going to repair some of the damage that he’s done,” Hux says, straightening up and lacing his fingers at his back. “It’s not something he usually does, so you should be grateful.”

Dameron narrows his eyes, mouth twisting up in reluctant befuddlement as he glances to Ren and then back to Hux. He is curious, but frightened by it, and clearly has no idea the injured party that Hux is talking about.

“FN-2187,” Ren says, in a tone that is slightly wry, which could be at Dameron’s idiocy, or as reference to the earlier declaration of trooper designation cessation. What ever it is, he is doubtlessly using it entirely for Dameron’s slighted benefit.

“Are you crazy?” Dameron exclaims, temper re-ignited as he throws his hands out wide to seemingly address the entire courtyard. “You were the one who did that to him.”

“You seem to be confusing him with yourself,” Ren says, speaking slowly and his tone going outright condescending. He even shifts on his feet to easier loom, “I only injured _him_ physically.”

“I cannot believe you – You would just say it like that,” Dameron says, eyes going wide and becoming somehow more incensed. He doesn’t look like a man who can hold onto that much anger.

Ren hums, tipping up his head in a mockery of thought, “You think I can do it, but not speak of it?”

Hux bites back a smirk, keeping his own misgivings at bay as he simply watches this bizarrely affable Ren tear down Dameron’s paper-thin resolve. It’s not unlike the _Finalizer_ , if absent the ire and the threat of death on Dameron’s part, though that is perhaps an inappropriate correlation to draw. He huffs softly at the sudden press of humor, and is pleased to know that at least Ren feels the same.

“Poe, allow me,” Organa interjects, appearing out of nowhere at Dameron’s side and coercing him into retreating almost as instantaneously. Her mind is still indiscernible from little more than the air, making her legitimately untraceable, and for some reason she stares at Hux for a disturbing moment before shifting her attention to Ren. “Can you talk to me now?”

“…Yes,” Ren says, though he seems to be making a renewed attempt to ignore Organa just as he did in the Assembly, imagining an empty courtyard even as she speaks directly to him.

Ren is again growing anxious and miserable, but not nearly so much as he had been when he first saw Organa – he is able to control the emotion on his own, keeping it tight at his chest. It seems to be a passible coping mechanism, though Ren may still be under effect from the earlier pacifying, considering how even his mood has been in the meantime.

“What would you like us to call you?” Organa says, and easily angles her head to look up through the hood, which is an unforeseen consequence of her stature. She purses her lips tightly, seemingly unsure at her own words, “For me to call you.”

Ren shifts backward onto his heel, a marked note of befuddlement seizing his mind. He glances quickly to Hux, searching as if he has any interpretation aside from the most obvious.

“I know that you’ve done terrible, _terrible_ acts in the name of Snoke… Some I cannot forgive you for,” Organa says, keeping her eyes on Ren even as her gaze trembles just slightly. She slowly lifts a hand and lays it on the front of Ren’s shoulder, her fingers barely curling over the top. He visibly flinches underneath it, going rigid with discomfort and surprise, but Organa ignores it and determinedly continues her assertion, “And I know that you will never be the man I thought you were. But you are still my son, and I don’t _want_ to make you uncomfortable.”

“R-Ren,” Ren stammers after a beat of uncertainty, taking a shaky breath as his eyes dart down for a short moment before he returns to staring once again above Organa’s head. His forced ignorance of her true presence seems to be working wonders, and his mental uproar gradually calms almost as if Hux had facilitated it. “Just… Ren.”

Organa nods, a grim smile flashing on her lips before she steps away, folding her hands at her back. “Now, what is it you’re planning on doing exactly, Ren?”

“I am going to… attempt to bring the trooper out of his coma,” Ren says, still speaking unsteadily as his head lowers to face somewhere just under Organa’s ear.

“Do you know how? His mind is not well,” Organa says, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head again in a visible attempt to meet Ren’s fickle gaze. “He is a rush of indivertible conflict. No attempt to soothe him has been successful.”

“He may need – “ Ren pauses, and glances quickly at Dameron for a moment, inhaling with an inward twist of agitation. “Something less subtle than you’re capable.”

“Less subtle?!” Dameron says, predictably dismayed as he curls his hands into fists at his side.

“I had suspected similar, Poe,” Organa says, sighing softly at Dameron as she furrows her brow. She purses her lips with distinct apprehension, “I worried he would be like this until Rey returned.”

“And if I can do it, you… You help Hux,” Ren says, voice hesitant and then abruptly growing stronger, almost zealous as he shifts his head to actually look deliberately upon Organa. “Rather than allow him to go mad, you would train him as best you’re able.”

Hux inhales with an almost painful shock, narrowing his eyes sharply and mentally insisting Ren shut his insolent mouth. The middle of the courtyard is not the place to be advertising weaknesses.

Ren ignores him, continuing unheeded without even a sideways glance, “It would be damaging for your struggling government if half the signing party on a historical treaty mysteriously went mad after the mutual enemy was defeated. It would make you no better than Snoke, and doubtlessly lead to the Order doing all they could to resume their erstwhile aims.”

Hux is fairly certain ‘The Order’ in this instance is actually Ren, but he’s too annoyed to appreciate the attempt at a gesture. He will admit that using the trooper is a shrewd power move, but one that will only work if Ren can actually bring him out of the coma, something that Organa had apparently already failed with her considerable power.

“Well spoken, Ren. I agree to the terms,” Organa says, after far too many seconds of evident thought. She steps to the side with a slow, meaningful nod toward the bunker holding the med-center, location made obvious by a conspicuous symbol embedded into the twin doors. “Please be careful with Finn. He was only here a short time, but he has made a great many friends.”

Dameron gapes, stepping forward with a stunned plea, “General, no!”

“Poe, calm down,” Organa says, and her voice is weary, yet firm, as she turns to look at Dameron. She lifts a hand to his shoulder, visibly squeezing in some attempt at comfort, “He can’t make it any worse.”

Hux gives into the urge to glance sidelong at her, raising an eyebrow, but carefully keeps his mouth closed. He slowly turns on his heel to follow the similarly paced Ren, an ear on the one-sided quarrel behind him.

“I can’t believe –“ Dameron sputters, his mind an addling strobe between horror and disbelief. “I’m going with them!”

Ren hums low, glancing over to Hux with a teasing peek from under the hood, revealing glinting eyes. He seems to think the conversation with Organa was some inconvertible victory; his mood bolstered by it. “He cannot believe he’s going with us? He _is_ a fool.”

Hux huffs, lifting a hand to hide an impulsive smirk as Dameron marches up to stand in front of Ren, clearly trying to block his path. He crowds forward in a similar manner as he had with Hux, attempting to go toe-to-toe with Ren, which remains a rather absurd move for someone more than a head shorter.

Dameron genuinely growls, jaw visibly ticking as he glares upward. “He - I know he ran, but he was terrified of you, of _both_ of you. You killed just because you could, and you probably still will.”

“Yes,” Ren says, dull and unconcerned.

Hux blinks in surprise, eyes flickering sideways in attempt to see under the hood himself – Ren had been _lying_.

“He wouldn’t want you in his mind,” Dameron continues, leaning back on his heels and gesturing at his own head. He keeps to motion up as he speaks, fingers gesticulating near his temple, “He wouldn’t want you in anyone’s - _I_ don’t want you in anyone’s mind.”

“You would rather he lie in a coma forever?” Ren asks, tipping his head and humming thoughtfully, “That could also be arranged.”

“No,” Dameron says, snarling through his teeth even as he hunches over in visible defeat, tightly curling his fists in the pockets of his lurid jacket. “But I don’t trust you. I know what you’re capable of.”

“Exactly,” Ren says, staring for another moment and then shoving past Dameron with a needless use of Force, nearly upending him onto the ground.

The med-center is stitched unevenly together inside the unexpectedly subterranean bunker, accessible only by the duracrete tunneling far into the ground beneath. The facilities seem to be lain out in random formation, with rooms and surgeries scattered nonsensically, and there are many simple droids wandering aimlessly with trays to empty beds, but it has the most advanced tech of the entire base that Hux has seen so far. He wonders wistfully if he might just sit in here and pretend that _this_ was the accurate representation of those that defeated him, rather than that eighty-year-old droid that could barely walk and had a voice box like a tetchy Academy teacher.

Dameron begrudgingly leads them to a wing marked off for long-term care, a pleasantly lit level with few occupants: mostly drifting attendants and a single receptionist whose eyes find Ren and settle him with a glare like he personally offended them. It has a markedly different note than the undiscriminating resentment that is throughout the rest of the Resistance base.

Hux raises an eyebrow and glances to Ren, purposefully sending a tinge of curiosity.

A moment later, Ren sends back an impression of a child; one with dark bangs that is sitting on hard ground, clutching at a bloodied leg and suffering a steady stream of tears that nearly completely blocks their vision. They are staring upward through their misty eyes at another child, one with a markedly similar appearance to the receptionist, who is flanked by an additional pair of sneering children.

The Ren of now shrugs off his hood at the hiss of uncompressed doors, entering the main wing with a nervous flicker of eyes directed at Hux.

“Did you deserve it?” Hux asks, glancing sidelong and ignoring the way his non-sequitur visibly startles Dameron.

“Most children at that age didn’t appreciate my… advantage,” Ren murmurs, shrugging tightly and walking steadily toward the lone patient in the room. “My mother sent me away not long after, following a similar incident that ended much differently.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, humming low and then sending a prying glance in the direction of Dameron.

“No,” Ren says, shaking his head shortly and hesitantly stopping at the edge of Finn’s bed. He turns to also look to Dameron, “Or, at least, he never did anything memorable.”

Dameron notices the stares and frowns back, jaw tense, “What?”

“Is this the condition he’s been in for the last two weeks?” Hux asks, ignoring the question and reaching for the data-pad at the corner pocket. He has half a mind to transfer the information to his stolen one, but cannot think of a reasonable enough motive to justify it. He only simply wants to _know_ , to perhaps see if this young man holds some curious tweak of brain chemistry that is different now than when he had been aboard _Finalizer_ as a talented-enough trooper to draw even Phasma’s attention.

Dameron glares sharply to Hux for a long moment, then at Ren, until his shoulders fall and he settles with his eyes downcast on Finn, “Yeah. They induced a coma while they fixed him up, but he should’ve woken after a couple hours of being taken off of it.”

Ren hums low and then lifts a hand, curiosity and determination most evident as he uses the Force, gradually scanning deeper and deeper thoughts by the familiar pinch overtaking his brow. He actually closes his eyes after another few moments, a sudden stroke of wretchedness heavy for a many seconds.

FN- _Finn_ , on his own, is an unusually strong mess of misery and pain for being in such a deep sleep, the mood peaking sharply at odd, jagged intervals before slowly leveling into a deeper sort of anger, then abruptly spiking once more. It reminds Hux some of Ren, as he had been on a daily basis not a month ago, which is certainly quite worrying for a number of reasons, least of all being blamed for the unpredictable state of mind if he wakes up.

“What is he doing?”

Hux twitches slightly, turning his head from where he’d been studying Ren to settle the overly anxious Dameron with a scolding look. “Quiet.”

A few moments longer and the emotions spike to markedly agonizing levels, Ren turning more desolate and resentful, while Finn is becoming shockingly hopeful, even desperate. The mess continues suffocating the room for another minute or so before Finn abruptly gasps, eyes snapping open and fixing on the stained duracrete of the ceiling.

Ren comes back to himself much quieter, retracting his hand and holding it close to his chest as he breathes in and out at an unsteady pace. He looks to Hux for a short moment, eyes wide and almost glistening before he turns back to Finn.

Finn is breathing hard, instantly shocked and horrified when he sees Ren, then slowly more baffled as he notices the rest of the room.

“General?!” Finn stutters in a hoarse voice, his eyes now fixed on Hux, and stare somehow going even wider as his mind fills with panic. He tries to shift away on the cot, but is apparently too physically weak. “What is – You’re not wearing – ?“

“Finn, man, calm down,” Dameron says, leaning forward and pushing Finn flat onto the cot, a shocked smile threatening to cross his lips with a surge of relieved joy. He suddenly seems to be holding an ice cup in his hand, offering it forward, “I know this looks really weird, but it’s… Well, it’s not _fine_.”

“Poe,” Finn says, voice dropping to a croaky whisper as he clumsily reaches over the cup to grab the lapel of Dameron’s jacket and drag him downward. “I’m having a really crazy dream.”

Dameron grimaces, mouth pinched for a short moment before he sighs, “No, you’re not.”

“But General Hux isn’t wearing his uniform,” Finn says, eyes going somehow wider and more insistent. He weakly lifts his other hand and points at Ren, “Lord Ren even has a different light saber.”

“…Yeah,” Dameron mutters, turning awkwardly from his current angle to look at Ren’s waist, lips twisting up in bewilderment. “Didn’t notice that, actually.”

“But this is on D’Qar,” Finn says, his voice even more hushes as he glances around the room, hunching his shoulders up. “The attendant has a Resistance uniform.”

“Yeah,” Dameron agrees, nodding along as he’s forced by weak fingers to tilt of his head to a far corner where an attendant has been eavesdropping.

“Then it – So it’s a dream?” Finn asks, rapidly glancing between Ren and Hux and then back to Dameron, his mind a fount of anticipation.

Dameron exhales heavily and shakes his head, biting heedlessly at his lips as the grin finally emerges. “Sorry, buddy. You’re _awake_.”

“I am going to leave,” Ren mutters, backing up a few steps and then hastily turning around. He has his hands curled at his side, and is radiating both discomfort and anticipation in equal measure.

Hux watches his back for a few moments, then exhales and looks down at Finn, lifting a hand to curl around his shoulder. He resists the urge to smirk as Finn flinches and looks up to him, eyes still wide, “You should speak to Phasma.”

Finn nods shortly, mouth dropping open, “Y-yes, sir.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, then gestures shortly as he turns around on his heel to follow Ren. “You’re no longer under oath to call me that, Finn.”

“Did you just –?” Finn says, his panicked voice fading as Hux exits the long term wing. His mind is a mess of relief and alarm, all twisting over a tremendous amount of confusion. “I think I woke up in the wrong galaxy.”

Dameron murmurs something inaudible from Hux’s distance, dusted with a wry sort of resignation that barely manages to surface through the still-overwhelming gratefulness.

Ren is standing outside of the wing doors, apparently waiting despite how quickly he made his exit.

“He was certain the scavenger was dead. It was preventing him from waking,” Ren explains without prompt, scraping his teeth over his lip and falling into stride with Hux on the path to the lift. He frowns with a small flinch, pulling at his hood when the receptionist turns specifically just to glare his way. “…I provided evidence of the contrary.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, nodding shortly with a low hum; knowing the motivation, it certainly explains why Ren felt so anxious in front of a barely cognizant man. He presses the lift button, glancing sideways, “Now you have two witnesses to your defeat on Starkiller.”

“No,” Ren says, glancing at Hux for a quick moment before looking determinedly away, hood directed at the ground even as he steps into the lift. “Three.”

“If we were to be strictly technical, I don’t know every detail,” Hux says, exhaling with a scoff and hastily raising a hand when Ren reacts to the implication with a surge of humiliated frustration. “Nor do I want to, especially now that I am meant to look the woman in the face.”

A Resistance engineer steps in front of Hux at the top of the med-center exit, shoulders squared with false confidence and biting their lips tightly as they stare with a pervasive sense of oddly tinted distress. They hold out a hand, fingers shaking just slightly, “Data-pad, sir.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, “Excuse me?”

“The General says, she says,” the engineer stutters to a stop, swallowing thickly before nodding to with an odd sense of personal urgency. “She said if you wanted to keep it, I should remove the local tracker.”

“Ah,” Hux says, pulling out the data-pad from his jacket pocket and glancing down at it, flipping it around back to front and then catching a slim break in the seam between the two halves of the shell. He should have checked for a tracker at the moment he found it on the freighter, and subsequently blames such an amateur oversight on stress. “I presume it is hardware?”

The engineer nods hastily, mouth pressed into a line, “Yes, sir.”

“I will remove it myself,” Hux says, stepping sideways and around them with a low, dismissive gesture. He wonders if Organa sent this engineer as some sort of punishment.

“A volunteer,” Ren says, voice hushed even as they pass the boundary into the Order camp. “Both horrified and in awe of Starkiller, wanted to meet you.”

Hux hums lowly, glancing backward quickly at the engineer, who still stands in front of the med-center doors with hunched shoulders. “How angry would Organa be if I recruited a member of her personnel?”

Ren does not so much answer as undergo a prickle of dark amusement.

Hux smirks, returning his attention forward, “I may have to do it, then.”

~

_‘Tomorrow, 0900. Thank Ren.’ >>_

Hux does not know if Organa means for the trooper or for negotiating Hux’s supposed training, but he also couldn’t care. He grimaces and closes the message, returning to the personnel reports Unamo sent at his request.

As he nears the bottom of the register of names, he realizes with a reluctant start that he has absolutely no idea what he is meant to do with so many at his command, but no real goal. Currently, they are an army against Snoke, but afterward?

Granted, standing as the unequivocal leader would streamline policy changes considerably, almost to nothing as proven earlier with the Troopers, and Hux could more easily formulate and build upon his _own_ ambitions rather than those of a sadistic spiritualist. He had often envisioned a particular, and largely impossible, ultimate goal, but as the New Republic would undoubtedly disagree with him and end it as easily as they had done Starkiller, ruling over a smaller group could be a satisfactory enough alternative. He will have to ensure they don’t destroy the _Citadel,_ if just for perceived grandeur.

Hux may even devise his own title. It would need to be imposing, but not particularly asinine – not king, and emperor is conventional, though _far_ too littered with bad luck... 

“Imperator,” Ren mutters, brow furrowed as he continues to stare at the hologame. He hesitantly moves a group two spaces forward, practically wasting the turn. “It is a General of Generals.”

Hux sighs at the interruption, refusing to give Ren the satisfaction of visible embarrassment even as he inwardly cringes at his own vain thoughts. “Where did you even hear it?”

“A legend, the title given to a vengeful woman by a leader she later kills,” Ren says, eyes flickering sideways with a note of dry amusement, at this anecdote that Hux will apparently not be privy. “Her story does not correspond to yours, but the title is both savage and stately.”

Hux clicks his tongue, thoughtfully fitting the title with his name: _Imperator Hux_. He finds it oddly satisfactory. “And of the leader?”

Ren spares Hux a disbelieving glance, “Immortan, though his death was prompt.”

“Cunning propaganda,” Hux says, contemplating the new title and finding it fits nearly as well as imperator. It also carries a rather satisfactory implication to those who would use it.

“Delusion of pride,” Ren says, voice going low and wry with dissent as he makes yet another wasteful move with the main squad; watching him play is painful. “Perhaps it is more fitting.”

“Your input is unneeded,” Hux says, trying to be scolding despite acknowledging that it is a fair point. He doesn’t want to be another Snoke, sitting in front of an overlarge monitor and playing at something impossible. “I don’t imagine this Immortan fellow had someone around to constantly crush his spirit.”

“Not that was told,” Ren says, smirking some before forcefully burying it beneath a false scowl. “Aside, of course, from the woman who killed him.”

Hux rolls his eyes and looks down to his data-pad, making a note to investigate this story later. “My first decree as Imperator will be stripping you of all titles, Lord.”

Ren suffers an odd mix of chagrin and longing, visibly scraping teeth along his lower lip. “Only of titles?”

“It will depend on the day,” Hux says, speaking slowly and restraining his surprise at such blatant innuendo. He can hardly believe his own ears, though he is comforted some at the sudden surge of embarrassment from Ren. “The second will be reminding you of your inexperience, mortifying your delicate ego into never making an inference like that again.”

Ren is quiet, inwardly suffering a painful bout of unflattering discomfort. After another moment, when Hux has already returned to his data-pad, he hums lowly, “… But will I still be inexperienced?”

Hux cannot resist the huff of laughter forcing its way out of his throat. Either Ren has realized some way to mask one emotion behind another, or he really is just this terribly awkward. “It doesn’t seem like it, but you are feeling rather bold, aren’t you?”

Ren’s hand hesitates over the board for a long moment before moving again, wasting another move. Hux belatedly realizes that the performance tonight has had more to do with nerves than any lack of skill, which is something of a relief.

Hux clicks the sleep button and lays the data-pad down, settling it on a table edge free of squads. He pauses, momentarily unsure before reaching up and grabbing the clasp of his jacket and pulling it down. “Well, I have a meeting tomorrow that you’ve forced me to attend, and since you’re so agreeable, you will make it up to me.”

Ren blinks rapidly at him before looking down at the board again, his hand hovering for nearly an entire minute before he lets it drop. A modicum of his discomfiture has started to become a more pleasant yearning, and there’s an obvious flush crawling up his neck. “Stop it.”

“If you don’t want to see it, you can stay out of my mind,” Hux says, in the midst of imagining Ren in a far more compromising position. After the last sleep cycle, he knows exactly what Ren looks like under those rags.

Ren nervously lifts a hand, curling his fingers under the collar of his scarf. “We’re still in the galley.”

“We’re on a sofa that happens to be near the galley,” Hux says, scoffing lowly and irritated at his own sudden speculation on exactly how angry Phasma would be to walk in on something worse than she had that morning. He’s not particularly eager to experience that – maybe he should stop. Or relocate.

“I – I concede,” Ren murmurs, hastily saving the hologame with a clumsy hand and then shutting off the display.  He stands up, for an approximate interpretation of the word with the way his shoulders are hunched, and pinches his lips hard enough they become white.

“Concede,” Hux repeats, staring up at him with a raised eyebrow. He raises alongside, if only to feel less diminutive, and pulls his jacket off in a single, practice gesture. “That is certainly one way of putting it, I’ll allow.”

“Don’t –  Don’t do that,” Ren says, now holding a hand out and staring down at Hux’s bare arms, before looking back up to his face with an overly harsh glare.

Hux scoffs, attempting not to feel too affronted as he glares back at Ren. “Do you expect me to stay completely clothed?”

Ren shifts gracelessly backward, eyes darting down once more with another sharp spike of humiliation, “You’re always wearing a coat.”

“Ah, are you getting nervous looking at my wrists? How quaint,” Hux says, feeling his shoulders relaxing as he begins to pull at the buttons near his elbow, the aged fabric easily coming loose. He glances up with a condescending glare when it earns another sharp inhale from Ren, and wonders if the last few nights of his invading Hux’s quarters had been purely imagined.

“It’s completely different,” Ren says hastily, backing up clumsily and nearly tripping over his own feet, then practically vaulting over the edge of the railing in a gratuitous show of agility as if to pretend he hadn’t fallen over it on complete accident.

“Ren, stop,” Hux reaches out and grabs the railing, leaning over it with a crawling, ugly feeling suddenly climbing up his throat. “Am I forcing you into this?”

Ren glances upward hesitantly, staring at him with a hint of confusion over his mortification. “No?”

“You don’t sound certain,” Hux says, narrowing his eyes and trying to better detect the validity. Supposedly, Ren hasn’t so much as kissed anyone in his entire thirty years; he might not even _like_ it.

“I’m only… unsure of my place, not of my desires,” Ren says, mouth twisting hard as he looks away and at the ground for a long, anxious moment. He then looks up, radiating a sudden convincing surety, “And it’s unlikely you manipulated any of the others, when you didn’t even care enough to notice they’d disappeared afterward.”

Hux stares at him, a frown cutting across his face; he had not meant that at all.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that it any of his liaisons could have involved compelling partners through the Force, now or at the time, so it suddenly seems horrifying and obvious – at least, until he admits to Ren’s assertion. Granted, he wasn’t exceedingly attracted to any of them, but Ren doesn’t need to speak about it as if Hux only indulged them to pass the time. He may have in a few instances, but certainly not all of them.

More comfortingly even than Ren’s statement is the recognition that if he had been compelling lust upon partners, then Cpt. Garret would have humored him at least _once_. He had practically courted the man, yet still received no interest in return.

Hux glances down again when he feels a surge of resentment, catching sight of Ren’s veritable pout. He huffs, drifting to the stairs and descending to the second level, slowly approaching Ren with a small smirk.

“I will not apologize,” Hux says, reaching up and tapping this side of Ren’s face with the back of his fingers. He smirks when all it does is make Ren glower deeper, “Even you were attracted to him.”

Ren scoffs, “I was not.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, turning toward his door and beginning to loosen the buttons on his shirtfront. He contemplates leaving it out here for Phasma’s benefit, but that might be overly gauche, and instead simply enjoys the way Ren trails behind him into the quarters.

“You allowed him to get away with touching your light saber,” Hux says, absently watching through of the corner of his eye as Ren tracks his hands with attentive eyes. “Which is a very amusing euphemism, now that I reflect on it.”

“It was not attraction,” Ren insists, reaching up in stuttering movements to his own scarf and unwinding it from around his neck and chest, leaving behind what is little more than a long tunic that barely covers his front and back that, on its own, looks obscene. He throws both to a corner with little care, still petulant, “He was simply… Charismatic.”

Hux responds with a low huff, neatly folding his shirt in half and lying it on the dressing table. “ _Ren_.”

Ren scowls, expression only deepening as he crosses his arms in an openly anxious manner, and looks just to the right of Hux. It’s such an unfamiliar experience, being avoided like this because of nerves, and it almost makes Hux want to smack him. Ren is meant to always contest him, even when he hates it – _especially_ when he hates it.

Hux reaches out grabs Ren’s jaw, tilting his head and forcing him to look forward, “Look at me.”

“But you don’t… want it?” Ren says, blinking twice in succession and furrowing his brow. “You always make them look away.”

Hux inhales sharply, widening his eyes before narrowing them into a severe glare. He tightens his hand against the jut of his chin, “What have you been watching, _Lord Ren_?”

“I’ve not – You’re –“ Ren says, practically stammering as he tries to look away again, and then flushing with worsened embarrassment when he realizes he cannot. “I didn’t need to. Because of the bond.”

Hux stares, and, much to his own displeasure, feels his own cheeks go warm. “You’re not serious.”

Ren glances down, scraping teeth over his lip and leaving it behind wet. “Nor are all your dreams so… Nightmarish.”

“Please tell me the troopers – “ Hux stops, biting his lips to keep from actually voicing that ludicrous concern, and instead letting his hand fall from Ren’s jaw to press at his own brow. “How irksome.”

Ren hums low in agreement, and his arms finally loosen from their tight hold to his chest, dropping down to his sides. He does not seem any more relaxed, but he is less anxious. “They are far less common than the others.”

Hux exhales through his nose, dropping his hand and allowing himself a simple weakness as his fingers to skate across the shifting planes of Ren’s abdomen, edging along the wide, still-red scar and listening to the way it has Ren’s breath speeding up. He hums, suddenly curious, and glances up through his eyelashes, “And how many featured you?”

“It was only proximity,” Ren mutters, chewing at his lips again with a note of resignation, as if he feels he truly needs to make an excuse for Hux.

“Is that what you believe this is?” Hux says, shifting in closer until he’s practically nose-to-nose with Ren, their chests pressed together and his hands now curled over barely-clothed hips. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to Ren’s for a too-short moment, “Do I seem disinterested?”

Ren reluctantly concedes with a low hum, anxiety bleeding quickly into want just as he lifts a hand to flatten into the obvious plane of Hux’s ribs. A long moment later, he drags thin nails along the surface, leaving streaks against the skin in parallel to the surfacing bone underneath. “You’re so thin.”

Hux inhales sharply at the sting, slowly drawing his hands from Ren’s hips to his sides, and then up along surface of his back to scratch along the ample muscle in return. “And you’re not, are you?”

“No,” Ren agrees, hesitating only a moment before leaning in to capture Hux’s mouth in a slow, deliberate manner. His hands drop from their place at Hux’s waist, down to hips to squeeze for a short moment, before lowering further.

Hux knows what to expect this time, aware enough of his own thoughts, and pulls his arms in for the spare second it takes Ren to lift him up. Hux moans into Ren’s mouth and lowers his elbows again onto the swelling strength of Ren’s shoulders, twisting his fingers into the loose locks at the back of Ren’s head.

He hasn’t had opportunity to see Ren’s cock fully erect – apparently no one had –  and Hux finds the line of it along his own to be just as he expected from the rest of him. Hux tightens his legs, attempting to press in closer, and is rewarded by a small noise that could definitely be called a whimper released against his mouth.

Ren gets more aggressive, pressing harder in return, and then oddly backs off, shifting on his feet. Only a moment later, Hux is swallowing a yelp when they abruptly fall horizontal, with Ren now looking up and prone on the cot, hands still at the back of Hux’s thighs.

Hux can feel his heart beating up against his ribs, like it wants to escape, and it has almost nothing to do with the insistent press of arousal. “You _bastard_.”

Ren is as amused as he is jittery, enough that he’s biting his lips closed to stop a smile. He stays that way for a long moment before curling one of his hands around the back of Hux’s neck, pulling him down. Hux allows it, shifting his thighs to a more comfortable position around Ren’s, and opens his mouth against the prying tongue. He realizes not long after than he should have insisted they remove their trousers, too, as even the thin layers of separation are quickly becoming frustrating.

He moves a few seconds later, pulling back and reaching down to his waist with one hand to undo the clasps of trousers, unfamiliar enough that it actually takes him longer than an instant, which only frustrates him even more. It’s slightly made up for by the benefit that they’re loose enough to fall down his hips and thighs with relative ease, and he can get his cock out without the same discomfort as the uniform.

Ren has been doing the same with a downright superfluous use of the Force, his odd trousers apparently easily divested by the same wrapped layers as his shirt, and his cock slowly unwrapped like some sort of ludicrous gift.

Hux has barely moved before his mind is struck with an image not of his own imagining, of putting Ren’s cock to better use than the current simple frottage. Hux rocks his hips just so in reflexive want, and watches through his own lust as Ren’s neck stretches back, then feeling his wide hand slides up the back of Hux’s thigh until it’s on the bare skin of his ass, fingers curling obscenely.

“Don’t be so insolent,” Hux murmurs, leaning down and pressing his teeth to the long line of Ren’s neck, listening to the stuttering inhale. “Unless you plan on getting rid of yourself, this will hardly be the last time.”

“R-right,” Ren says, but his mind is still little more than muddled desire, and his hand doesn’t move.

“Ren,” Hux says sternly, biting down harder for a short moment and then pulling back to glare, though only half-heartedly. He cannot concentrate –  the mark is already red and getting redder, and the sight of it is somehow more distracting than Ren’s boldness. He has never had cause to leave marks before, and now realizes he would like to do nothing more.

“I am,” Ren says, glancing up from Hux’s mouth to his eyes, blinking far too slow. His hand still drops obediently down Hux’s thigh, thumb feeling along the line of his still-clothed knee. “You’re thinking about it, too.”

“Be that as it may,” Hux murmurs, slowly running his hands once again up the perfect lines of Ren’s chest, barring all the scars, and digging his fingernails into those thick shoulders. “You are inexperienced, and I don’t have the time now to teach you that lesson. Choose another.”

Ren groans, eyes peeking closing at the same moment his red flush completely overtakes his ears. He moves his other hand from the back of Hux’s neck and slides it lower, and lower, until it completely engulfs both their cocks. He strokes in a way that is downright perfect, somehow knowing just where to put pressure and where to stay gentle.

Hux’s elbows give a moment later, and he curls his hands tight into Ren’s hair, biting at his mouth for something to do in return. His mind is quickly being completely overcome with shared arousal, the physical touch on his dick somehow turning secondary the closer he gets to coming.

“H-Hux,” Ren stutters, breath hot and thighs widening to press harder against Hux’s, his hand growing more careless, though no less satisfying. He is clearly about to come soon, his lust a persistent, heaving thing that twines tightly around Hux and has him in an irrefutably similar state.

The climax is almost painful, a spike of pleasure so strong that Hux almost doesn’t realize it has happened until many seconds later; the sweat cooling on his back and leaving it chilled to the air. It is probably good they did nothing more – he may have actually passed out.

Ren is still trembling under him, and Hux slowly eases off to the side, wincing as the muscle in his legs practically seizes at the movement. He should get something to clean them off, but most of it is on Ren anyway, and Hux is too bizarrely exhausted to care.

He frowns, peeking his eyes open when he hears a shuffle across the room and watches his shirt begin to float over before abruptly dropping to the ground. He pinches sharply at the skin of Ren’s chest, just next to the scar and vindictively enjoying the flinch it elicits. “If you use that, I will continue your little post-coital tradition by killing you.”

Ren growls low in his throat, sending an outright offended look at Hux before his eyes fall closed, doing a terrible job of hiding the moisture behind them. His mouth is a petulant, quivering frown, “I cannot even concentrate enough to get it.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where has your mind gone since we left?” Phasma says, practically spitting with her anger and moving around him in an undeniable stalk, “Has that genius everyone just loves to admire evaporated into nothing?”
> 
> Hux raises an eyebrow, settling his mouth into a slanted frown as his eyes follow her slow circuit.

Hux wakes to a mild case of asphyxia, and it takes a moment for him to fully comprehend the thick arms determinedly trying to squeeze the life out of him. He reaches out and knocks Ren away with a calculated jab of an elbow at the hollow of a shoulder, listening to the quiet yelp in response and grimacing at the mean scrape of uneven nails; Ren is barely aware, yet still sullen.

The air is cold when Hux peels himself out of the bed, and the bite of it remains distracting even when he nearly falls straight onto his face because his own trousers tighten around his ankles like shackles. He sighs heavily and turns around with a lazy glare, catching the glint of Ren’s eyes under the coverlet.

“…I was asleep,” Ren mutters, glaring for a short moment before he shifts around on the cot and drags the coverlet over his head.

The only reason Hux needs to be up at this hour is Ren, and he has the gall to be petulant.

Hux kicks the loosened trousers off his legs with a grimace, reaching for the dressing table and pulling open a drawer to find another, blessedly clean, pair and shirt. He should be able to get into the refresher and out with ample time to be perfectly, disrespectfully late for his meeting with Organa.

He doesn’t anticipate the resentful Phasma on the sofa when he opens the door, or the way her head snaps up at the sound, mood abruptly turning wrathful. He pauses for a bemused moment, watching Phasma stand slowly, sensing that her mind is as inflexible as the line of her body.

Hux manages to dodge purely out of reflex as she swings at him with enough strength to cause a minor dent in the paneling, and he stares at her for a short moment before skidding quickly sideways as she makes another grab for him. He slinks into the refresher and through the door. “Not now, Phasma. I have a meeting.”

“I am going to bloody throttle you,” Phasma shouts, her ire thrashing out viciously as if physically trying to pull him back through the door.

Hux inhales sharply and raises an eyebrow at his own reflection in the mirror, then looks sidelong in the direction of Phasma. He honestly has no idea why she has suddenly decided to turn into an absolute beast at the very sight of him. He doesn’t manage to truly anger Phasma often, and even then he always knows the reason.

He makes a point to get clean in a timely manner, begrudgingly using the sonic for efficiency, and then hesitates for a moment at the door, instead choosing to take almost twice as long as usual making sure his sleeves are even and his hair free of tangles. He frowns at his own image again before exhaling heavily and warily opening the door, straightening his back and shoulders when Phasma uncurls like a panthac from her lean against the back of the sofa.

“Where has your mind gone since we left?” Phasma says, still practically spitting with anger and moving around him in an undeniable stalk. “Has that genius everyone just loves to admire evaporated into nothing?”

Hux raises an eyebrow, settling his mouth into a slanted frown as his eyes follow her slow circuit.

“Because we have suffered multiple instances in that time, between your turning the _Finalizer_ bay into a den of fear and Kala’uun into a riot, where your emotion has slunk into the minds of others once it reaches a certain peak,” Phasma says, raising a hand to emphasize her words and stopping in front of Hux with an incensed glare that threatens to bore holes into his eyes. She leans in close, her mouth flat and unforgiving, “And then you go and do _this,_ apparently without a single thought to the _consequences_.”

Hux stares for a long moment, mind refusing to comprehend before he feels the sudden, abject horror coming from Ren in the other room. He lifts a hand and curls a fist over his mouth, attempting to restrain the soft, hysterical laugh that escapes without his express permission. The idea alone is absolutely mortifying, except he’s actually gone and done it.

“Oh yes,” Phasma says, straightening up with a sneer. “Now you are going to apologize.”

“To everyone?” Hux says, dropping his hand and stepping back as he scoffs low in disbelief. “I will not – they have no idea the origin.”

“To me,” Phasma snaps, lifting hand and stabbing her fingers sharp into the plane of his shoulder. “You will apologize to me. Do you know what I was doing, at the time of this horrible, horrible event?”

“Of course not,” Hux mutters, glancing sideways and wondering what manner of disaster he’s going to find outside of the freighter. He hopes it doesn’t involve anything more risqué than a passing of ill-timed mood. It’s not as if he took away inhibitions… Probably.

“I was speaking to FN-2187, because apparently you asked him to meet with me,” Phasma says, straightening her back and gesturing outward with a sporadic flick of her wrist. “He has some delusion he was an inspiration to us, or some such – doesn’t matter, what does is I was speaking to him not thirty meters away from this very ship when… It happened.”

“Ah,” Hux says, grinding his molars together in discomfort. He hums low, feeling suddenly diversionary, “I thought we were calling him Finn now?"

“I am so very cross with you, Hux,” Phasma says, exhaling slowly and shaking her head even as she continues to glare into him. “I want to just shoot you. Preferably, between the legs.”

“Were there any events?” Hux says, looking pointedly at a porthole shining down on them; the one that faces the main command center.

“Thankfully no,” Phasma says, licking her lips nervously and glancing away as her anger slowly melts to something more akin to general mortification. “The Order has enough training in ignoring such things that they conducted themselves admirably. The feeling wasn’t… overly pervasive, only frustrating.” 

Hux frowns, staring at her for a long moment before he’s struck with a sudden notion, edging its way into his mind. “Dameron was there as escort.”

Phasma curls up her lip in a grimace, nodding stiffly, “He’s as terrible a flirt as he is a pilot.”

“And yet nothing happened?”

“I certainly had to stand there and pretend not to notice his graceless interest,” Phasma says, huffing derisively and sneering in the general direction of a wall. Her embarrassment is undoubtedly at the entire situation, but much of her anger seems to originate with this unseemly witnessing. “Thankfully, FN- _Finn_ is about as aware of it as a duracrete slab. I quite envied him for the time it lasted.”

“Of course,” Hux nods, suddenly finding hysterical laughter to be twice as difficult to keep at bay. His chest feels as if it is crawling with insects of all manner, trying to escape from under his skin.

“Furious with you,” Phasma says, every syllable another thorn of humiliated anger as she works herself back up into a rage. “Absolutely furious.”

“Ren is too,” Hux says, glancing toward the door to his quarters, and then forcing a shrug as he steps sideways, toward the stairs. He is going to be a little too late if he doesn’t leave this cesspit of discomfort any faster. “Watch for that while I’m out, will you?”

“No,” Phasma snaps, reaching out and then dropping the hand stiffly to her side when Hux levels it with a sharp look. “Where are you going?”

“A meeting, as I said,” Hux says, climbing the steps and pausing only to grab his jacket off the back of the sofa.

Phasma suffers another spike of ire, now tinged with resignation. “I hope she melts your mind into little more than protein paste.”

Hux stops at the door, sighing heavily and then turning on his heel. He walks to the railing and stops, glancing down to her and lifting his chin just as she looks up. “I am just as mortified, Phasma.”

Phasma rolls her neck slightly as she looks away from him with pinched lips, then exhales heavily, “Thank you.”

“And I was completely serious about Ren,” Hux says, ignoring the growing cloud of indignity as he marches back to the exit. “Mine’s not the only day you ruined.”

The camp seems unaware that last night was odd, with activities being little different from yesterday, and he would almost think Phasma had been lying if her anger wasn’t still so prevalent even two-hundred meters away. He is addressed respectfully by a few squads out on their morning activities, jogging past or conducting drills, and the typicality of it even in this unfamiliar environment manages to calm him enough that he can think of other things. Things that are not the potential of every single member of the Order camp being privy to his obscener interests.

It lasts right up until he steps into the command bunker and remembers far too late that Organa is a mind reader. She stands innocuously in front of a holoscreen, probably only biding her time before she sharpens her opinions into a cutting insult on his self-control.

Ren’s mental turmoil worsens into absolute mortification, and for once Hux completely understands the motivations.

Hux stays in place for a long moment, then hesitantly moves forward when Organa doesn’t acknowledge him, and keeps walking until he stands roughly a meter at her back. He cannot tell if this is meant to be some odd humbling lesson, and nearly reaches forward to tap a shoulder before she suddenly turns around, data-pad clutched in hand.

“Ah, General Hux,” Organa says, staring up at him and blinking twice. She glances around him, eyes darting toward the door before settling back on his face. “You don’t have my son with you.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, unsure if that was meant to be some sort of subtle taunt. “No.”

Organa pinches her lips for a moment longer, the narrows her eyes. “You’re also late.”

The office that Organa leads Hux to is fairly sparse, with little personal effects aside from a crowded bookcase, but holds an overabundance of seating for the space. He stands at the door, hands behind his back, and is curious if he is meant to take a seat at the front of the desk or at one of the old pilots’ seats being used as garish furniture.

Organa rounds her desk and sets the data-pad down, folding her hands in front of her waist and raising an eyebrow. She seems expectant, as if he had invited himself.

“Is there somewhere you wish to start?” Hux asks, glancing sidelong at the bookcase. Snoke had only a few real ones in his artifact room, and Hux was never allowed to touched them, but here Organa has at least a hundred of varying sizes and lengths just sitting out in the open air.

“I must confess something,” Organa says, sighing deeply and unlacing her hands to tap at her chin with a knuckle. She grimaces after another too-long moment, “I planned on allowing you to perish.”

“I am aware,” Hux says, nearly succumbing to the urge to huff with bitter laughter.

“Ren is much more attached to you than I anticipated,” Organa says, staring down at the desk and then gracefully slinking down into the leather chair with another heavy sigh. “I had seen it, but believed it to be a folly of interpretation.”

Hux reacts with little more than a slightly raised eyebrow, waiting in resignation for it to become a criticism. She still hasn’t mentioned anything, but perhaps she’s far too tactful… He somehow doubts it. He once heard an old rumor she literally spat in the face of Emperor Palpatine, but that may have been propaganda.

“Aside from that, every Jedi was dead when I realized my power,” Organa says, gesturing toward her own mind with a lazy wave of fingers. She shrugs a moment later, glancing up with a dry look. “Excepting my brother, of course, who I would rather not count.”

Hux exhales heavily, setting his mouth into a bored frown and shifting on his feet. “Does this have a point?”

Organa frowns tightly, her expression sharpening into a glare. “The point, as you so callously ask, Hux, is that if it weren’t for the seal around your power, we would be equally educated. The only advantage I truly have over you is genetic.”

Hux stares, then narrows his eyes, “Come again?”

“I am stronger, but no more trained,” Organa says, spreading her hands wide. She settles Hux with an unimpressed stare, one that has him feeling small.

“The seal,” Hux says, repeating the words and resisting the urge to break eye-contact with her condescending scrutiny.

“I assume the limitations were placed by Snoke,” Organa says, her expression thawing slightly as her mouth tilts into an unsettled frown. “It may have been someone else. I don’t know much of you aside from that devoted persona propagated by First Order literature.”

Hux stares at her, allowing his brow to furrow as he tries to understand the implications of her statement. His only limitations are the ones he had at birth.

“I know I alleged earlier that I could remove it,” Organa says, nodding upward oddly and grimacing with apparent distaste. “And I can, but it would be painful to the point of torture, perhaps death. It was why I indicated the action as a threat.”

“…You said you could remove my tie to Ren,” Hux says slowly, straightening has back as much as he is able, attempting to feel more in command through sheer benefit of hawkish posture. He refuses to believe he mistook her earlier threat, or that Ren had done the same. It was the only reason Ren forced them to come – admittedly, Hux may have insisted they travel here once he found out about the Order camp, but he will never have a chance to find that out.

“Is that what you want?” Organa says, a considering frown settling along her mouth. She looks almost predatory suddenly, by the slight jut of her brow. “I would be willing.”

Hux stares back, swallowing tightly and feeling the edge of indignity return from this morning, though of a decidedly different variety. He cannot believe he had made such a huge misstep in interpretation. He had thought it some cruel threat, but it was nothing to her – she was even now offering the separation as a simple proposal.

Hux feels a decidedly uncomfortable crawl up his spine, the idea so repulsive that he resolves to avoid ever answering that aloud, if only for his pride. He sneers, “What seal – What limitations? I’ve never been stronger than this.”

“It would have been done to you at a very young age,” Organa says, speaking slowly and raising an eyebrow at his obvious evasion of her question. “No later than six, maybe seven standard years, judging by the effectiveness.”

Hux swallows, easily able to pinpoint the exact moment it may have happened: a terrible destruction of his person that left no physical marks? He will never be able to repress that memory. “Can you not just find it in my mind with all your considerable power?”

“I cannot see into your head any more than you see in to mine, Hux,” Organa says, her voice suddenly unforgiving like stone, tinged with a sharp edge of frustration. “It is something I had _not_ foreseen, and has proven very trying in our few times speaking to one another. I am sure you understand even with that enfeebled power.”

“In Kala’uun,” Hux says, ignoring the insult as he tilts his chin up with a disbelieving sneer. “You dispersed my entire awareness. I could barely think it was so disconcertingly _empty_.”

“I simply blocked Ren,” Organa says, folding her hands on the desk and raising a single, bemused eyebrow. She sits silently for another moment, then tips her head in apparent consideration, “When his presence disappeared, your subconscious may have… Reacted disproportionately. You may have been searching for him so desperately that you lost other awareness. In a way, I had nothing to do with it.”

“And what about these – this supposed _seal_ ,” Hux says, even more unwilling to believe the assertion. She may simply be attempting to put him at ease, which would allow her to easier see inside his mind while he is unprepared. The justification is far too convenient.

“It is not part of your mind, simply a barrier,” Organa says, becoming visibly irritated, and a short, momentary sneer crosses her face before it disappears once more behind an even frown. “I can break it, but I cannot see _inside_ of it. I do not understand why this is so difficult for a man of your supposed mental acuity to comprehend.”

Hux glowers in return, choosing for the moment to allow her the satisfaction of his belief. He has no way to verify her claims – Ren is in his head, but he was arguably put there, and he has met few other Force-users. Snoke should be an obvious marker, but Hux cannot recall him ever actually speaking _directly_ inside of his mind, as supposedly was often done with Ren, nor through an inanimate object, as Snoke had apparently also done to Ren. He inhales slowly, allowing his shoulders to relax, and repeats her earlier words. “…Break it.”

“No,” Organa scoffs, raising an eyebrow in disbelief and shaking her head shortly. “My son would destroy the entire base until I was forced to stop him.”

Hux exhales sharply, and ignores the urge to press his fingers to his brow in irritation. “That is what you did on Kala’uun.”

“Ah,” Organa intones, tilting her head in admittance with a thin grimace along her lips. “I resealed it after only a moment, but it seems to have still hastened the deterioration. An oversight.”

Hux frowns shortly, deciding she doesn’t sound particularly apologetic, and then finds himself glancing down and away from her indifferent expression before he can stop himself. Her respect means less than nothing to him, and yet he still feels slighted by such a careless reference to his demise. It must be some of Ren lingering into his mind.

“Please, sit,” Organa says, drawing his eyes and gesturing with an easy wave of her fingers. She picks up her data-pad a moment later, a small smirk peaking at the corner of her mouth as she moves it out of reach. “If your back hasn’t already seized from that stiff parade rest, of course.”

Hux looks at the chair, hesitating for only a moment before allowing himself to sit. He has no need to do so, and has stood in similar position for far longer and under worse circumstances, but it seems counter productive to act aloof in front of a woman who is aware that she could kill him with a single thought.

Hux stares at the desk surface for a long moment, “If I have this power, then why would Snoke bind it – Why would he instead go after Ren?”

“…I imagine because he could not control you,” Organa says, finally showing a note of emotion in her voice, though a bantha could recognize that it is not for Hux. “Not the way he controlled Ren.”

“For what little that means,” Hux says, feeling his own anger begin to surface and prickle like electricity against his skin. It is a deeper, denser ire than he felt on Kala’uun, which barely compares to how he feels now. He has not seen Snoke in person since he had been bound to Ren, not stepped foot in the Citadel since he attained rank of General; Organa knows nothing of the reach of Snoke’s control. “He gives orders on a holo-projector from the Citadel, halfway across the Galaxy. He has done _nothing_ to regulate aside from threatening words, and yet we all still fear him. Even here, with all this New Republican apathy, he _still_ has control.”

Organa tilts her head, “Does that mean he sent you?”

Hux grinds his molars hard, listening to the grating sound under his ears. “No.”

“Speaking of control, you seem to lack it,” Organa says, barely blinking as her eyes go slightly distant, looking out past Hux and in the direction of her command center. Her fingers have begun tapping at the desk in an odd rhythm. “Thankfully, I can reroute it the moment it becomes theirs.”

Hux sneers, his hands curling into fists over his thighs. He inhales, then exhales slowly, determined to shove his wrath back where it belongs, and simply breathes for the few minutes it takes to stop feeling as if his skin is about to burst aflame. He notices the sudden press of Ren trying to actively search his mind, and glares straight at Organa until it dissipates, only speaking after he is sure Ren is no longer eavesdropping. “I was under the impression you didn’t approve of using it as a palliative.”

“I don’t,” Organa says, her eyes refocusing as she settles him with a reprimanding glare. “It has the potential to make him more volatile.”

“More volatile,” Hux repeats lowly, scoffing under his breath. He reaches up and presses his fingers along his brow, rubbing at the intangible pain settling above it. He pauses a moment later, glancing back up to Organa with suspicion filling the empty spaces left by anger. “Why hasn’t he mentioned this seal? If it _truly_ existed, he would have known.”

“I doubt he can see it,” Organa says, raising a single eyebrow as if Hux has just suggested something ludicrous. “It is unlikely even Snoke can perceive it; he put it there, but I doubt he truly _sees_ it.”

Hux frowns hard, feeling very tempted to stand up and walk away. He cannot trust this woman; she benefits far too much from his death. If he were to fall after deposing Snoke, then she would have only disorganized soldiers to eradicate, and it would probably even be easy. If she can ease the command center with such little concentration, she can doubtlessly do similar to a greater population.

“How do you perceive emotion, Hux,” Organa says, folding her hands again over the desk. She tilts her chin up, eyes narrowing as she brazenly glances over his face. “Is it just there like an inkling in your mind; a belated translation of thoughts?”

Hux frowns, swallowing tightly and not fully understanding the motivation of her question. “No.”

“Well?” Organa says, prompting him to speak further with a presuming roll of her palm.

“I hear it, even often see it,” Hux says, speaking slowly and unsure himself why he is entertaining Organa’s questions, even so grudgingly. Perhaps it is because Hux has never been asked, not even by Ren; he probably already knows, just as he does everything else. “Smell, or taste, rarely, though it is quickly becoming more common the more species I meet.”

“I am the same,” Organa says, nodding once with a disturbingly encouraging tilt to her expression, as if she is pleased; it has Hux wishing he could take back every word. She inhales a moment later, clicking her tongue, “My brother, Ren – they don’t understand. They cannot. It would be like a wookie insisting they know the sensation of lekku. To them, the Force is most strongly _felt_ – with one sense alone. They can discern surface feelings and thoughts, of course, and even implant them, but… My brother once described it as if they were going through a demodulator.”

Hux frowns, and finds the claim difficult to believe. How can Ren control the Force as easily as he does, if he cannot see or hear it? To reach out and trust something to just be there seems wildly foolish, especially when he was so often in the face of life and death.

“If I do manage to remove the seal without killing you, it will be how you perceive everything with Force,” Organa says, continuing with a practiced, circular gesture at the air around them. She seems almost wistful, a small smile appearing for an instant before disappearing.

Hux frowns, determinedly skeptical, “If your power is so steeped in the mind, why couldn’t you wake the trooper?”

“Ah,” Organa intones, an unsettled expression crossing her face. “Finn was determined to ignore everything. He refused to be calmed, to even acknowledge my presence in his own mind. I’m not certain I want to know what my son did to him to encourage him wake.”

“Convenient,” Hux mutters, allowing bitterness to enter his tone, and mostly only to irritate her.

Organa sighs, giving him a terse glare. “You are somehow more pugnacious than I expected, Hux. I am only trying to help, as asked.”

Hux allows his fingers to tap at the edge of his knee. He had been reasonably young when Snoke attempted to train him, so his lack of apparent proficiency could mean nothing; although, _none_ of it would if this meeting led nowhere. He levels a flat stare at Organa, “You must have some idea to remove this evident seal, or you would have dismissed me soon after I arrived.”

“I may be able to crack only a link,” Organa says, lifting a hand and gesturing with a small, subtle swipe of her fingers. She allows it to drop after a moment of silence, tilting her head to the side with a markedly wary glance at something just over Hux’s eyes. “I will warn you, it will hasten the fall into madness if you fail to block it.”

“Then I will die either way,” Hux says, pointing out the obvious with considerably more ease than he believed he would feel. The value of life has been called into question far too often as of late, between Snoke, Ren, and now this, and he is almost becoming accustomed to the constant lack of physical wellbeing. He wants something more substantial than this constant volley of so far empty threats. “You may even be able to convince Ren of this little farce and channel it into your victory.”

“How pragmatic,” Organa says, her tone turning tart as she stands with a sharp look. She walks around her desk, but doesn’t approach Hux, instead aiming toward the bookcase and grabbing a discolored tome that is small even in her hand. “This is from the before even the Old Republic – it has long served as a stand in for a mentor. You may consider it a peace offering; a symbol that I expect our treaty to last far after the death of Snoke.”

Hux stares, wary of touching the book and feeling it turn to dust in his hands. He doesn’t know why Organa isn’t simply giving him a data chip; Ren has about a hundred of them laying around – had, as it were, though Phasma may still have a couple with the way she talked earlier.

Hux glances up to Organa’s eyes, keeping his hands low. “Have you not scanned it?”

“I cannot exactly do that with this one,” Organa says, raising an eyebrow and offering the book further. “And don’t worry about the age. The pages hold power in and of themselves – there is a reason it has survived so long.”

The book is sooty against Hux’s fingers, the binding of a rough sort of canvas that seems stretched around a core of metal. He opens it with no little wariness, swallowing thickly as he allows two fingers to slide across a soft, smooth page. The ink is stark like new, spreading across the page in crisp lines, and displaying a table of subjects and chapters.

“Ah, good,” Organa says, “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to see the ink.”

Hux flinches, nearly dropping the book to the ground. He had somehow forgotten she was even there, so drawn into a text that he had seen for no more than seconds. He closes it and puts it on the desk.

“It is a bit like a holocron,” Organa says, leaning against her desk, lightly tapping the book with one finger and drawing it down the spine. “I prefer it, honestly. Holocrons can be rather like torture, so bright and loud –  Ben used to love them.”

Hux feels a grimace cross unbidden on his face, and he glances upward sharply. “Any other wisdom to impart, General? Perhaps something more helpful.”

“I don’t know exactly how it will feel for you,” Organa says, hardening her eyes and frowning down with a pinched expression.

Organa continues to stare into Hux, unashamed to show that she is trying to see through his mind. It isn’t accompanied by that invasive press like Ren, but it still has Hux deeply uncomfortable. She may claim to not be actively aware of it, but her mind is still an oppressive weight upon him.

“I think about a wall, of how it feels to lean up against one,” Organa says, standing up straight and walking back to her place behind the desk, “I place that where I hear a voice or see an image that I do not want to see, and slowly it becomes a comforting cell with walls like a jigsaw.”

The description is vague and seems far too simple. He wonders if this is what Ren had been attempting to do to him on the freighter, and now understands completely why it had failed. Even still…

He stares back at Organa even as he takes note of the edge of the chair against his back, of the solidness, and attempts to place that over the dull hum of the occupants in the command center. It almost seems to do nothing, but he realizes a startling moment later it was because it already feels so ordinary to have only the petulant roil of Ren lurking.

What had he been doing before Starkiller that had the same effect?

“It is similarly useful for keeping things _in_ ,” Organa says, narrowing her eyes pointedly as she watches him straighten his posture in the chair. “But that is only my experience. If you use something now, perhaps simply hone that against everything else.”

Hux has frustratingly little idea what he once employed, aside from the occasional use of Ren as an almost defensive tactic against the minds of others. Perhaps it had been a subconscious barrier that he was only now being forced to use consciously, but that too seems a foolish notion.

“I would appreciate it if you just got it over with,” Hux says, lifting his head as he crosses his arms over his chest, forcing himself to indifferently tap fingers over his elbow.

Organa frowns, eyes taking an undeniably frustrated glint, “Are you in a position to speak to me so disrespectfully?”

“We both have business, Organa,” Hux says, tilting his mouth into a sideways sneer.

A sudden wail enters his mind before quieting, then a barrage of horrified, angry shouts – frightened whimpers. He finds himself hunched over, pressing his head to his hands and desperately waiting for it to stop. He remembers after far too long Organa’s recommendation, and imagines the jigsaw pieces, then remembers the jigsaw was only a metaphor for the already metaphorical walls –

His mind is getting so bunched up by the screams and the confusion that he gives up and just reaches out for Ren, in a manner that he hasn’t needed in days, and concentrates on his presence.

Ren is angry, as usual, and underneath that he is embarrassed, and underneath that he is quickly becoming worried, and he is suffering so many emotions, but they’re all Ren, and Hux can handle Ren. It takes far too long for the noise to dull into a hum, hindered by the more familiar pitches of Ren’s emotion.

Ren is shouting, so loud that it is practically right in Hux’s ear. ‘ _Always in pain, always. Why is he constantly in pain? It’s my fault. It’s always my fault.’_

“Are you still sane?” Organa says, her voice somehow both louder and quieter, echoing against the walls as if she is in a large chamber. It quickly overtakes Ren’s despite being weaker, and the shouts disappear into little more than resonances. “Or as much a man like you can be.”

Hux forces his eyes open, first seeing the dull rug on the floor, then straightening his back to stare with some contempt at Organa across the desk. He doesn’t get that far, instead his eyes catch on the book as he lifts them, and he stares at the odd wriggle of dark veins that crawl over the surface of the binding.

“You have a disturbing tolerance for pain,” Organa says, drawing his eyes to the way her mouth settles into a horrifyingly sympathetic frown. “Your entire body was wracked, twisted with misery, yet you didn’t so much as whimper.”

Hux swallows a bitter laugh, then furrows his brow as he glances around the room. “Where’s Ren?”

“I presume my freighter,” Organa says, tilting her head with a narrow look. “Why?”

A sudden uproar of terror and befuddlement bursts from the command center, easily breaking through the thin barrier of the half-forgotten mental wall. Organa marches over to the door, throwing it open, and Hux, mostly curious, stands with a jarring creak of his back and follows.

He stops just outside the jamb with a scoff of disbelief and presses a hand to his brow, feeling an embarrassment that he knows is Ren’s, yet also very much his own.

Ren stands unmoving in the middle of the command center, light saber drawn, and wearing little more than a pair of thin trousers that barely reach his calf. He is clearly damp from a shower and must have stolen them from one of the freighter rooms, but they don’t look to belonged to Solo.

 _‘Over reacted,’_ Ren says, except he hasn’t, because he had not so much as opened his mouth. He is also suddenly unsure of how to react, mortified and staring straight at Hux, then slowly dropping his arm as he deactivates the light saber. _‘He’s going to be angry. Very angry.’_

“Ren,” Hux says, voice less firm than he would like it to be, especially under the circumstances. Ren is going to be very difficult to function with when he realizes that more than only his face is visible.

…Ah, that was a foolish thought.

_‘Everyone is staring. Staring! They can all see – I can’t… I’m so stupid. A moron. I cannot even kill them.’_

“Hux,” Ren says, this time aloud with a voice like a trapped animal. He seems to be unaware Hux can discern his thoughts, and is putting up an admirable show of consummate dignity. He crosses his arms in attempt to look more imposing, holding his shoulders stiff and neck taught, just enough to put into stark relief the purpling, distinctly human marks that strike twice into his skin.

Hux can practically hear the rumors already – quite literally, it turns out. A particular technician behind him seems under the impression it was Phasma. He turns to them, glaring so hard they gasp, and watches as they step back into a console and completely forget about Ren in favor of evading his ire.

The expansion in Hux’s ability is everything and nothing at once – he knows more, but it feels more like a confirmation of an earlier discovery rather than something completely new; like he has found a pair of spectacles for his ability that renders everything so much sharper.

A more physical object presses into Hux’s hand, and he looks down to find Organa handing him the book. The creeping veins are still disturbing, even more so with how they crawl over his hand and then back onto their binding with little concern.

“The seal will break quickly now, but should be easier to suffer now after the initial flood,” Organa murmurs, then raises her voice as she steps back, gesturing at his mind and then glancing out into the greater area of the room. “I encourage you to be prepared for the coming encounter, Hux. Not everyone can be so easily sidetracked as these talented soldiers so close to my command.”

Ren seems to be back in his mental empty room, staring down at the floor and thinking about katas. It's clear he registers Organa’s words, but determinedly ignores them in favor of pretending he is simply waiting for Hux.

“Apologies, General,” a twi’lek says, notably embarrassed and turning swiftly away from where they’d been staring blatantly. They are one of the few with shame, it seems, and many of the rest continue gawking until Hux manages to shove Ren out the door with little more than a sharp mental elbow of frustration.

Hux promptly restores the mental barrier, more effortless a second time as the invasive thoughts gently disappear into little more than a dull, ignorable hum. He cannot believe it is so easy, as if he is simply forgetting them by choice rather than being forced to suffer.

“You were... very stressed,” Ren says, glancing away from him with a strong note of mortification and a very angry thought toward his own indignity.

“Not nearly so stressed as you currently are,” Hux says, glancing over Ren’s neck for a lingering moment of indulgence. “I believe – Oh hells.”

Ren turns to him, confused and then glancing past Hux with an overwhelming sense of dread. “No.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, even as he curls the book closer to his waist with a similar note of trepidation. “How is Dameron more off-putting than Organa?”

Ren glares shortly with little real answer, and he is so terribly stiff that it seems to be making his muscles flex further, ironically making him more noticeable. He seems to entertain the idea of Hux’s jacket, before dismissing the idea with an unkind thought that it would be far too small over his own frame.

“Watch yourself, Ren,” Hux says, glancing at him and sending a deliberate prickle of irritation. “I will be very cross if your mind is nothing but insults at my figure.”

Ren catches Hux’s eyes, shocked and uneasy. “…What did my mother do to you?”

“Oh, is she your mother now?” Hux says, feeling suddenly belligerent, though not enjoying it so much now that he can actually hear the soft, whispery words of hurt behind the rising anger from Ren. He should have had Organa reseal his mind rather than loosen it, though she may have decided conveniently that it was against her little moral code.

Except, Hux wanted power, and now he’s been inadvertently robbed of ever enjoying a fight again. He could attempt to block Ren as he has been doing with every passing moron that so much as glances his way, but he has a sense that it would be hardly as effective.

“Hey, hey,” Dameron says, finally catching up and skidding to a stop in front of Ren. He glances over him in unease and surprise, maybe a little admiration, before looking up at Ren’s face and formulating an awkward, thankful apology. “I kind of… Need to do something.”

“Please restrain yourself,” Ren mutters, looking away from Dameron and trying to evade him without use of physicality or Force. “I did it for myself.”

Hux moves forward once Ren aggressively thinks that he is done entertaining this, his mind concentrating anew on getting as far from here as possible without throwing the freighter into hyperspace.

Dameron reacts to that with predictable frustration, before unexpectedly dropping it, instead glancing over Ren’s back as he walks forward with a distracted, lewd thought toward the marks made obvious. “Hey uh,  _Ren_ – “

Hux is going to choke this man with his bare hands. He has no skills that are not easily replicable in a similarly-sized droid.

“ – Did you do anything last night? Like, with another person,” Dameron asks, tilting his head and mentally going through a ludicrous list of options until he actually manages to land on the correct one, eyes sliding sideways to Hux. Dameron is more curious than offended, nothing like Phasma, but the motivation seems to lean more heavily on disbelief.

Ren ignores the thoughts and continues walking, but Hux finds himself more irritated than he can stand, stopping and turning around to level Dameron with a staid glare. It does not take long to find that thread of lingering fear and bring it forward, forcing him to remember his earlier hesitations.

Dameron delays for another short moment before nodding shortly and turning around, and Hux makes better effort to ignore him as his presence fades behind another barrier. He is still easily felt, but now Hux doesn't need to suffer his belligerent thoughts and emotions every moment he might be near. Even if what Organa has just done does end with him as a mindless nonentity in less than a week, then she will have at least taught him this trick.

“She will be furious if she discovers that,” Ren mutters, hunching into his shoulders even further as they cross into the Order camp.

“He was being a nuisance,” Hux says, refusing to acknowledge the swarm of relief from a few of the squads. As well as frightening them, Ren’s overreaction seemed to make a few assume Hux had fallen to Organa’s hand. “You’re twice his size and a walking weapon. The fact he would still be so rude is unacceptable.”

The freighter is quiet and unassuming, Phasma apparently long gone and unaware of what Ren left looking like, otherwise she would have been either at his side or currently mocking him. Hux wouldn’t doubt she left soon after he warned her away; she has far less tolerance for Ren’s tantrums.

Ren frowns at the thought, practically bounding down the stairs as he appreciates the existence of drills, and subsequently Phasma’s devotion to them.

Hux resists the urge to study the book, instead lying it on the hologame table and waiting for Ren at the edge of the sofa. They should make rounds today, explain their goals to the officers more personally than secondary correspondence through Unamo or Mitaka. Ren has never been eager to speak to subordinates, as they make him simultaneously nervous and angry, but if Hux is going to truly be in command, then Ren is going to be required to create more of a rapport with these people than he has with that unstable hellion routine.

He will also be able to determine if anyone here is a spy for Snoke or even simply sympathizer, and won’t even need Ren to do it. It is an incredibly emancipating realization.

Ren is wrapped up again when he ascends the steps, even hiding his face from Hux under that hood as his mind fills with thoughts of mortification. He wants to take out all of the cam droids, but at the point he would also have to confiscate data-pads and scrub the Resistance network.

If the image becomes showcased in the next week on the Order gossip network by an anonymous moron, Hux will be completely unsurprised.

 “You can read my thoughts now,” Ren mutters, pulling the scarf up over his mouth. “Did she enhance your power?”

“No,” Hux says, standing straight and reaching out to grab the edge of the scarf to force it back down. He pushes at Ren’s hood next, until it falls backward to his shoulders. “I don’t feel like recounting the entire painful meeting, just look for yourself.”

Hux tips Ren’s chin up to look at the mark on his neck, an odd crawl of remorse at the sight of it. He does not remember leaving it so deep, and frowns as he runs his fingertips over the discoloring surface, at the much fairer match underneath, and feels a slight residue of bacta against the raised edge of both. He wonders why Ren didn’t just heal it, with as much as it must ache.

Ren visibly shies away at the thought, swallowing, “Your mind is more closed than I am accustomed.”

“I would think it the opposite,” Hux says, dropping his hands and stepping backward with a considering glance over the rest of Ren, at his evading look and pinched mouth. “Why are you lying?”

Ren suffers a strike of self-loathing, unsure if this should be counted as a recent failure or an ancient one. “I should have known.”

“Perhaps,” Hux says, tipping his head in a mockery of admittance, before raising his chin and glaring once Ren meets his eyes. “But it seems if anyone should have, it would be me.”

“It was my fault,” Ren says, anger growing and spiking to complement with the sharp sound of his ugly, miserable thoughts. “He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been here.”

“Blaming yourself because of mere existence is truly reaching, Ren,” Hux says, giving him a flat look and a frowning hard, determinedly keeping his own mind composed. He will not allow Ren to sulk over something so foolishly self-martyring, “If you are trying to garner pity, why don’t you use the fact you just walked through two camps half-naked, because even after fifteen years, you forgot that you could see into my mind.”

Ren scowls for a long moment and exhales sharply, conceding to the point with a note of bitterness. He reaches back for his hood again, and then pauses, face falling and eyes widening at something Hux cannot see, then suffering a trajectory of thought that is little more than indecipherable noise.

Hux exhales heavily, managing to bury a wince. “Oh, _what_?”

“Skywalker is here,” Ren says, his voice hushed and almost fearful. He thinks he is going to be punished, which is understandable considering his past with Skywalker, but Hux isn’t inclined to allow him the opportunity to suffer it. “He’s landing with the scavenger girl near the Command Center.”

Hux glances in the vague direction of the Resistance camp, and would swear he can feel the looming confrontation. He looks back to Ren, narrowing an eye, “Are you going to have another episode?”

“No,” Ren snaps, defensive and irritated, but underneath he is uncertain – his thoughts are of little more than how much both these self-declared Jedi want to kill him. It should be a consequence of action that Ren is used to suffering, but apparently he persists into denial.

Hux sighs, shaking his head just slightly and allowing his disbelief to be obvious.

Ren scoffs, swallowing tightly and pulling his hood and scarf further up his face. He is quiet for a long moment, his thoughts whirling with discontent and memories, which seem mostly of the Knights. “I do not feel the same about him as Organa.”

“You do seem to feel worse,” Hux agrees, allowing a bitter smile to cross his face. Ren had been much more adamant on killing Skywalker than he ever was Organa, but Hux knew that was more the goal of Snoke.

“I am angrier,” Ren says, his tone turning harsh as he makes a pathetic attempt to correct Hux. A moment later, he glances over with a heavy exhale and an odd thought of resolve. “I will use it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a lot of this up, and like I was going to mention the Night Sisters (and I alluded a bit to them) but then I was like 'Do they even exist anymore?' and then it got all... Obviously, but I would also like to say, specifically, that I believe Leia would make a great one. 
> 
> From here it will probably be more third-person limited with notes of third-person omniscient, because I did not have the patience or the skill to write two to three conversations happening at once, which means there won't be a lot of explicit mind-conversations happening, only that Hux and Kylo will be described as knowing exactly what the other is thinking, or that Hux knows what everyone is thinking, but no one knows what Leia is thinking.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I encourage you to stand back,” Organa says, barely glancing back at them as she speaks, and then gesturing offhandedly at the Millennium Falcon. “They were notified of your presence at arrival, but I’m not sure what Luke will be like.” 
> 
> “I am,” Ren says, his voice purposefully dull; it does a terrible job hiding his apprehension. 
> 
> “You still overestimate him,” Organa says, looking forward as her voice lowers to something more distracted. “Everyone seems to.”

Phasma is outside the entrance to the freighter, her hand already defensively wrapped around a blaster at her hip. “The Millennium Falcon is breaking atmosphere. Rumor is Skywalker is on board.”

“Ren said as much,” Hux says, giving her a brusque nod. He gestures faintly in the direction of the Resistance base; Phasma agrees with a short exhale of visible trepidation, falling into step beside him.

The rest of the camp is as on edge as Phasma, and Unamo appears at his side after only a few meters, boldly shoving in front of Ren in her urgency and harried about the procedure of this unforeseen quantity. She has her data-pad clutched so tightly in a white-knuckled hand that he is worried it will crack between her fingers.

“Please assure anyone who is overly stressed that this is part of the procedure,” Hux says, glancing down to Unamo as he nears the edge of the camp. “Skywalker was expected.”

“Yes, sir,” Unamo says, nodding shortly and peeling off back toward the command tent. Her disbelief was unsubtle at best, but she will doubtlessly do as he orders despite personal misgivings.

Phasma glances shiftily to Ren, “Is he going to make an attempt?”

“If he does, I will shoot him myself,” Hux promises, and swings his attention from her to Ren. He is irritated and anxious in droves, and has nervously resettled the light saber at his waist multiple times since stepping out of the freighter. Hux nearly reaches out to stop the hand himself when it lifts again, “You’re free to slay anyone you would like after we dispose of Snoke, but I will not be shunted out of such an esteemed position because of your lack of self-control.”

“…I am no longer certain I could kill him,” Ren says, glancing up and then away with a surly look.

Hux huffs in disbelief. “The man is nearing sixty.”

“He’s been training at the first Jedi temple for as long as I have been with Snoke,” Ren says, shifting his hands again and then curling them up at his sides. He thinks this temple must have contained some hidden, all-powerful knowledge for Skywalker to stay there for so long. “He has learned too much.”

The Millennium Falcon is just as old and decrepit as the rest of the Resistance fleet, creaking on its landing gears as it settles onto the ground. Hux knows it got passed him on Jakku, then once more on Starkiller, and there is even rumor it once evaded Vader, so looking at its battered form now, he wonders if it is possible to imbue a piece of machinery with a sense of perpetuity.

Organa is already waiting, standing only a few meters from the unopened hatch with her hands behind her back and shoulders straight. The Resistance soldiers that are slowly gathering become anxious as Hux, Ren, and Phasma approach, shifting on their feet and wary of what they think is some sort of preordained clash. It’s almost like the Order hasn’t been the only organization suffering Ren’s obsession for the last few years.

“I encourage you to stand back,” Organa says, barely glancing back at them as she speaks, and then gesturing offhandedly at the Millennium Falcon. “They were notified of your presence at arrival, but I’m not sure what Luke will be like.”

“I am,” Ren says, his voice purposefully dull; it does a terrible job hiding his apprehension.

“You still overestimate him,” Organa says, looking forward as her voice lowers to something more distracted. “Everyone seems to.”

Hux glances down at her, raising an eyebrow just as a soft groan sounds across the courtyard and the ramp springs open to reveal a hatch.

The scuffed, aged R2 droid from Ren’s memories is the first thing to emerge, practically diving down to the courtyard while grumbling a litany of legitimate curses in binary at C3PO. It comes to a halt right in front of Ren and then turns slowly on its creaky wheels before knocking right into him.

“I thought this thing was down a staircase,” Hux says, lifting his head from the R2 unit to look at Ren, then turning to the C3PO. “Are you programmed to lie?”

“I did no such thing!” C3PO exclaims, toddling backward in exaggerated shock. “I never said he wasn’t with Master Rey, I merely told Master Ben that he wasn’t to speak to him by order of the Prin- General.”

“3PO, quiet down,” Organa says, pulling the droid back by it’s shoulder with a short shake of her head.

The R2 unit seems to be in full working order, and even makes a show of going after Ren’s leg with a small saw before retracting it and turning instead to coo softly at BB8. The droids seem to have their own gossip network, and R2 is none-too-pleased by the amount of stone steps that were on the planet that held Skywalker.

Hux looks to Phasma, who shrugs and then straightens her shoulders, gesturing forward with her chin as a pair of more human feet make their way down the ramp, slowly revealing a very hesitant scavenger, who is clutching a staff in her hand but not making any offensive move to use it. She is fully ready to fight Ren if she needs to, bolstered by her earlier victory over his injured form, and even hopes that she will get the chance.

Behind her follows the wookie, Chewbacca, and every step closer of his long legs has Ren growing more anxious with a litany of discordant thoughts regarding how deserving he is of further retribution. He is even staring at that wookie bowcaster, almost drawn to it.

Hux doesn’t understand the reaction, as he can, disturbingly enough, discern a wookie mind almost as if it were that of any other standard speaking sapient. He is still mourning Solo, just as everyone else seems to be in the Galaxy, and is consequently furious at himself being thankful to see Ren alive after the attempt at evisceration. He still sees Ren as some uncooperative toddler, and it has nothing to do with the childish personality.

Hux summarily blocks him as best as he is able, and resolves then that Ren should be shot by the bowcaster again, if only so he can more easily practice stopping the powerful bolt from someone who actually means it.

The scavenger, called Rey it seems, is a blaze of rage and melancholy aimed straight at a singular, evident target. She stops in front of Ren, an ugly sneer stretching across her mouth, and just as she begins to speak a spiteful insult, Finn appears out of nowhere and bowls her over, exuding happiness. It is so loud and bright that Hux nearly wants to insist Ren rescind his act of goodwill in the most vicious manner.

It would start a battle Hux probably wouldn’t come out of, but at least he would be free of that nauseating good cheer.

Skywalker is rage and sadness and disbelief, eyes fixed on Ren as he descends the ramp in a much more hesitant manner than the others. He looks nothing like Ren remembers, and even less like Hux had expected: a lightly featured, ageing man with a large beard. He barely comes up to Ren’s chin. 

“Luke,” Organa greets, tipping her head slightly at Skywalker. “I have made a deal that will end Snoke’s control over the First Order.”

Skywalker turns his melancholic eyes on Organa, then abruptly jerk back to Hux, narrowing sharp in shock. He is disturbed by his inability to sense Hux, then by the abrupt realization of his identity. He doesn’t seem particularly careful of his thoughts, either, which will probably prove useful.

“I will be sure to notify Lando of this foolish move, Leia,” Luke says, his voice hoarse with obvious disuse, and severe eyes finally leaving Hux to gaze with disappointment at Organa.  “I am sure he will appreciate the hypocrisy.”

Hux blinks slowly, peering quickly to Ren’s thoughts in curiosity before returning his attention forward. Something to do with Darth Vader, which Ren finds inanely flattering.

“Perhaps,” Organa says, pursing her mouth slightly in clear irritation. “I have long come to terms with his choice, as I am sure you will with mine.”

Skywalker scowls, the shape of his mouth emphasized heavily by the beard.

“Are you sorry?” Rey asks, stepping up to glare at Ren after being released by Finn, both Dameron and his figures standing at her back. She seems to have little care about interrupting a pair of the most powerful individuals in the Galaxy, or for ruining Hux’s silent eavesdropping. “Are you sorry for what you did?”

Ren stares down at her, his mood flush with emergent sorrow. “Would that make it better?”

“No,” Rey says, her mouth trembling just slightly as she exhales with a pitiful glance downward. “No, I guess it wouldn’t.”

Chewbacca adds his sorrow with a quiet wail, reaching out and patting Rey on the shoulder with a single large hand.

“General,” Phasma inhales angrily, glancing sharply to Ren and then shifting her eyes to meet Hux, raising an eyebrow with intent, “I refuse to allow Lord Ren to purposely rebuff such a valuable ally because of self-pity.”

Hux tilts his head, ignoring a sidelong look from Organa, “Proceed as you see fit, Captain.”

Phasma nods tightly, sending a small, triumphant sneer to Ren before facing forward once more to return the startled look on Rey’s face. “Yes, for what little that is worth.”

“Phasma,” Ren says, voice low, but more humiliated than particularly reproving.

“You and the General were in confined to your rooms for two solid days,” Phasma says, her voice barely above a hiss. “I am not such a moron.”

Ren glares back, hunching slightly for all the good it does in this crowd, with his hands curled at his side. Oddly, there is little physical damage despite his mind racing through various methods of outlet.

Hux must admit that being away from Snoke, or letting go of the Dark side, or whatever it is that Ren did exactly, has somehow improved that volatile temperament. If it had been a week ago, then Phasma would have been thrown to the ground and choked very close to death; two weeks ago, Hux probably would have gladly allowed it.

“Remorse does not mean he is to be trusted,” Skywalker says, addressing Organa sharply after Phasma’s little show. “I know he’s your son – “

“Luke, from my perspective, he is equally as trustworthy as you,” Organa says, her accusing tone severe and unforgiving. She raises a hand swiftly, and taps hard enough with the heel of it at Skywalker’s chest that he steps back in surprise.

Ren is momentarily overcome with a stroke of bewilderment, but not so much that it manages in overthrowing the sorrow as joining it. The trio of cheerful fools, and even most of the Resistance onlookers, seem to almost harmonize alongside, suddenly steeped on edge and leaning on each other in surprise, bordering on dread.

Hux concurs with the sentiment, but can also understand the motivations well enough even without insight into Organa’s mind. Ren had been a teenager at the time of his betrayal, and while it had been atrocious in manner, he couldn’t have been so much a real threat that someone as famously powerful as Skywalker needed to run.

Hux knows for a fact, actually, how much of a threat Ren was at the time, and that it had not been much of one. He could barely stop his own tears, let alone a well-placed blaster shot.

An uncomfortable nudge of displeasure interrupts Hux’s thoughts: Ren trying to defend his younger self while also reacting with mounting shame. He is unsure if he should be regretful or thankful that he couldn’t kill Skywalker the last time they met, and is feeling a similar undecided reaction now.

“Leia,” Skywalker says, his voice somehow rougher as he slowly lifts a hand to set it on Organa’s shoulder, and his mind sown deep with regret and sorrow. “I only meant to garner strength through the Light. I never imagined how long it would take.”

“You still haven’t managed it,” Organa says, rebuffing the attempt at comfort with a short knock of the hand off of her shoulder. She steps back with a short lift of her chin, eyes boring holes into Skywalker, “However, this is an entirely inappropriate setting for me to personally address your shortcomings, so you will simply have to settle for assuring me that for now you won’t try anything against my guests.”

“I have felt what he has done,” Skywalker says, stepping back from Organa now with thoughts of reasons to be wary of Hux. He seems to be quick enough on his feet to try another tactic of avoidance. “I cannot trust him.”

“Trust is of little value at this time,” Hux says, raising an eyebrow with as little outward concern as possible. “I am more concerned with your worth in this fight.”

“Don’t talk to him like that, First Order scum,” Rey says, stepping forward again with considerable ire. “You’re barely worth enough to speak to him.”

“If I am scum, what are you?” Hux says, turning slowly away from Skywalker to look at Rey. He puts a hand up when Ren leans forward in attention, and instead tips his head, a bitter smirk crossing his face when her scowl deepens at the attention. “You cannot honestly believe that scrapyard planet you called a home was favored by the New Republic.”

Rey frowns, leaning back on her heels in obvious uncertainty.

“Who did you believe was buying the wares you scavenged from aged _Imperial_ ships?” Hux says, raising an eyebrow and gesturing at her form with a low scoff. “Or providing the rations and maintaining the community moisture vaporators? Because I can assure you it was not the indifferent government of the woman next to me.”

Rey frowns and glances to Finn, brow furrowing in unease when he hums low, tipping his head to the side and glancing away. He had never been on the detail, but it wasn’t a secret – Jakku was a particularly well-known scrapyard in the First Order for a reason.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rey says, her expression recovering her scowl as she shifts just slightly back from Hux. “Being on your planet doesn’t make me part of your people.”

“You seem to be under the odd impression it is something you can choose,” Hux says, feeling his hands curl at his sides as he steps forward to stand over her.

“Hux,” Ren mutters, oddly unsettled. The only thing keeping him from reaching out physically is the knowledge that Hux would be unhappy about it.

“I cannot sense his mind,” Skywalker says, diverting the conversation with a low grumble in Organa’s direction. “It is unsettling. He must have considerably training from Snoke.”

“A natural defense,” Organa says, her eyebrows going up in a decidedly significant manner as she looks to Skywalker.  

“No,” Skywalker says, expression falling into a deep grimace as he shakes his head. He seems to be more actively refusing to acknowledge Hux now, on apparent grounds of strangeness. “Snoke would not stand for it.”

Organa sighs, her eyes quickly flickering to Hux as her mouth falls into a dissatisfied frown. “He didn’t.”

“I am still present,” Hux says, raising his voice and waiting a moment for them both to look at him. “Perhaps gossip so blatantly about me after you’ve found your privacy.”

Skywalker frowns hard, his mouth pinched into another harsh scowl as he levels Hux with a heartfelt glare. He is also very wary suddenly, finally attempting to raise ineffective mental blocks that do little more than screen his thoughts like a broken display: muddled with noise, but still faintly discernable.

“Rey, I want you to speak to Ren about honing telekinesis,” Organa announces, turning on her heel and looking to Rey with a small, bafflingly serene smile through the sudden uproar of commotion. “I’m not sure if you’re strong enough, but being able to stop a blaster shot would be very useful.”

“Oh no,” Finn interjects, his abject horror rising in perfect pitch with nearly everyone else present. He practically squeaks when Rey turns her upset glare at him, “Not that Rey – Uh, couldn’t… Poe, help me.”

“Uh,” Dameron intones, opening his mouth a few times before closing it with a clack of his teeth. He is unaccustomed to disagreeing with the General, and also the only one present without explicit knowledge of what happened on Starkiller, so he doesn’t fully understand how this is such a terrible proposal.

Aside, of course, from the fact Dameron doesn’t want Ren near _anyone_. Chewbacca, even with his little experience in the Force arts, is eager to voice his very similar opinion.

“Wait, General,” Rey interjects, finally finding her voice behind the shock and daring to grab Organa’s arm in her confusion. “I thought I found Master Skywalker so he could teach me.”

“And you did,” Organa nods, raising her hand at the perfect convenient moment to smack Skywalker in the chest again. “However, Ren has a few talents that I doubt my brother would have seen appropriate to ever learn, and I need you to know them _now_.”

“I’m not comfortable with this,” Phasma mutters, glancing to Hux with understandable trepidation.

The group at large is beginning to believe Rey can get past the event on Starkiller, but they know nothing of how Ren is doing drills with others, even the ones he is meant to command. The few times the Knights attempted training with their exalted master on the _Finalizer_ or Starkiller often ended with grotesque wounds, and very rarely on Ren. Hux trusts Ren not to go overboard about as much as Ren trusts himself on these matters, which is very little.

“I will not allow Rey to fall to the Dark so swiftly,” Skywalker says, voice rising above it’s thus far hoarse whisper into a growling shout. “You cannot make this foolish command, Leia.”

“I can, actually,” Organa says, her voice as firm as durasteel as she turns to Skywalker with a stern glare. He actually steps back: the all-powerful Jedi savior reduced to being scared of his sister. “You no longer have any voice in my decisions, Luke. You can either help now, or stay out of it until the time is right, as you are so fond of doing.”

“Leia,” Skywalker says, exhaling slowly and glancing quickly to the upset Rey before looking back to Organa with a weak attempt at determination. “…He cannot be trusted.”

“No, he cannot, but I think you’ll find much has changed about my opinion on trust during your self-imposed exile,” Organa says, leaning into Skywalker’s face with a mighty scowl before leaning back with a scoff. She looks to Rey with narrowing eyes, and then to Ren, “I expect to see results by the end of the day. It is of vital importance.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dameron says, the only halting voice in a sea of silence, extending well-past even the Resistance on-lookers.

Organa nods once, then turns toward the command center with an unbreakable aire of resolve, both of her aged droids toddling along behind her as the crowd parts and disperses. Skywalker and Chewbacca stand stock-still, but are eager to go after her, to attempt to change her mind once more, yet are reluctant to leave Rey alone with Ren.

Hux finds it rather insulting to Rey, really, since she had already nearly killed Ren. Hux won’t deny wanting nothing more than to gut her for it, to strike out until her body lie broken and bloody in a conveniently ironic pile of snow, but he can still admit the fact she managed it is an obvious signifier of latent strength.

Skywalker suffers an odd strike of longing and then turns to look at Ren fully, glancing directly at him for the first time since he exited the ship, “Ben.”

“Ren,” Ren corrects, his eyes twitching with a barely-held stab of frustration. He would have the very ground beneath them swallow Skywalker up if he were so able.

“I am… glad to see you didn’t completely fall to the Dark Side,” Skywalker says, tensely pinching his lips as Chewbacca warbles an agreement. He looks to Hux for a spare second, nodding shortly, “And that you managed to bring someone back from it.”

“I have no part in that nonsense,” Hux says, raising an eyebrow and leveling Skywalker with a disingenuous smirk. “My strength is based on ego and acumen.”

Skywalker frowns, managing to be both disapproving and bemused. He believes Hux is being insincere for some representational reason, as if the soldiers of the Order care about such things as millennia-old mysticism. 

“I will allow this,” Skywalker says, his shoulders tensing and mind practically tearing at him to stop speaking – it seams that trait is genetic. “But only until whatever Leia is planning has been completed. I’m sorry, Rey.”

“I understand,” Rey says, nodding shortly and glancing down as her jaw visible tightens.

Skywalker exhales slowly, glancing between the group for a long moment before making hesitant a move to follow Organa. Chewbacca stares at Ren for much longer, grumbling short wails of discordant anger and sadness, unsure what to do specifically, torn between striking out at Ren and hugging him. In the end, his impressive shoulders merely fall with a heavy strike of sorrow.

Hux glances to Ren, studying the way his glinting eyes refuse to look up from somewhere near Chewbacca’s feet. He has no idea what sort of odd family Ren must come from, for it to be worth so much emotional driveling.

“An apology would mean nothing,” Ren says, his voice tense and cold, and belying none of the underlying melancholy, though that would probably show in his eyes if he bothered to look up.

Chewbacca growls an agreement, somehow understanding Ren’s terrible attempt at compromise. He wisely doesn’t move to touch him, but does some sort of clicking that inexplicably has Ren feeling both worse and better. He turns a moment later, slowly following Skywalker and Organa to the command center bunker.

The lookers on have mostly scattered by this point, uninterested now they know there won’t be an impressive battle to witness, which leaves Hux in one of the more awkward situations he has had the privilege to suffer. He is not surprised Organa wants the scavenger similarly trained to Ren, but is at the fact she would demand it so soon after the arrival of her estranged brother.

The timing is worryingly suspicious, enough that Hux almost glances at the sky.

“Looks like you managed to get your wish,” Rey says, looking to Ren with a carefully arced sneer.

Hux has no idea what that means until he suddenly does, Ren’s memories managing to be even more mortifying than Hux has words to speak. He can believe that Snoke would want another strong Force-sensitive, and easily knows that Ren would be ham-handed about the proposal in any case, but Hux allows himself to feel incredulity that Ren had picked the very, very worst moment. He summarily decides it was because Ren had met his mental and physical breaking points, and ignores the way Ren is currently filling his head with attempts to defend the actions as a sane bid at a heightened moment of emotion.

“This is a terrible idea,” Finn says, practically clutching his face as he leans back and looks at Rey. His eyes shift to Ren a moment later, and then to Hux, raising his eyebrows in a clear, desperate inquiry, seemingly forgetting his traitorous status as he looks for support.

“I have to concede to the strategic advantage,” Hux says, pinching his lips together with a heavy sigh through his nose.

Phasma hums low, raising an eyebrow and glancing between the small group before turning her smirk straight at Finn. “Have you ever wanted to shoot Kylo Ren?”

“Yes,” Finn answers, without even a moment to contemplate the fact that the object of discussion is still standing a meter to his left.

“Why are we shooting him?” Dameron says, interjecting with a lift of his hand and an inquisitive lift of his brow. “And are you taking more volunteers?”

“How can you all be so mad as to even speak to him?” Rey says, her voice practically ringing through the courtyard. Her staff is held in a white-knuckled grip, brow furrowed tightly in anger. “Finn, do you not remember?”

Finn grimaces, shoulders falling as he looks away from Phasma with a heavy strike of distress. He seems to be unable to look straight at anyone, suddenly guilty, “He – um, he made up for it, a little.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dameron says, speaking lowly and exhaling with a disbelieving scoff. He is completely convinced that Ren did it selfishly, which isn’t untrue, but still rather tasteless to accuse so blatantly.

Rey shakes her head, her eyes a permanent fixture of accusation, “There is nothing he possibly could have done.”

“Apparently, I was… asleep,” Finn says, his lips twisting up at the memory. He doesn’t recall the incident perfectly, which is beneficial to Ren, but he does still seem completely aware of the more notable repercussions that occurred. “He woke me up. It didn’t even hurt.”

“Asleep?” Rey repeats, mouth falling into a straight line of disbelief.

“And afterward, I found out I wasn’t the only one who escaped,” Finn says, his energy and cheer reappearing with the rush of proud words as he gestures around to encompass the camp. “Even Phasma did, and then General Hux freed _all_ of the Troopers – there was an official memo and everything.”

Hux raises an eyebrow and glances shortly to Phasma, just in time to watch her roll her eyes. Apparently, Finn’s delusion of himself as a revolutionary was not an exaggeration. Ren is similarly amused, having lost enough melancholy to make an ill-timed implication about loyalty.

Ren’s mood altogether is odd, having not peaked or screamed the entire encounter with Skywalker, or even now with Rey. He hasn’t used anger as he promised, instead it is as if he’s still under the effect of Hux pacifying him, every rise of emotion being stifled under something more composed.

Ren glances at him slyly, then looks away, but his thoughts readily betray him and reveal far too much about an impossible abuse of resource. It has Hux wanting to smack him for his audacity, then scoff in disbelief when he’s accused of doing exactly the same; Hux using Ren’s constant turmoil as a barrier against the emotion of others is not remotely the same as Ren presumptuously using Hux’s calm as a block against his own. If Ren continues to do that, then it will undoubtedly level out somewhere and he will be completely useless as a distraction for Hux.

“Are you listening?” Phasma says, drawing Hux out of his thoughts as her voice peaks into a markedly sharp note. “Hux.”

“They were communicating,” Rey says, her eyes slightly unfocused as she shifts on the balls of her feet. “But I could only sense half the conversation.”

“Stay out of my mind,” Ren says, turning on Rey with a staggering amount more vitriol in the command than he has ever used with Hux. “It is not meant for you.”

“It is not meant for anyone,” Rey says, scoffing back with a low note of furious suspicion. She had drawn from his thoughts twice before, which is more than enough experience for her to form a cruel opinion. “Your mind is a horrible thing – miserable with anger and pain. I almost pity you.”

Ren sneers back a wordless insult, believing that he has suffered his own lack of control more than anyone, and that she has no place to insult him with it. Hux finds the notion obnoxiously childish, but will admit that he has rarely seen Ren proud of anything he has ever done.

“I refuse to listen to anything from you,” Rey says, voice rising in pitch with her whirling wrath. Her mind strikes out with harsh efficiency at Ren, and she is doubtfully even conscious of it.  “I do not care for what General Organa says; I will not stand here being forced to look upon you any longer.”

“Organa knows the enemy is coming. She would not be so insistent on this foolish suggestion otherwise,” Hux interjects, stepping forward into her path and glaring down with no little amount of his own fury. He leans into her space further until she actually tries to move backward, her resentment paling into something like wariness, “You will not lose this for me, or for your blasted Republic, simply because of a folly of pride.”

Rey inhales sharply, continuing to glare upwards even as her determination fades at his strong-arming.

“Do _not_ cross me, scavenger,” Hux says, lowering his voice further until she is forced to look down and watch the words shape on his lips. “You know nothing of what I am capable of.”

Rey swallows tightly, her mouth pinching with reluctance as her gaze flickers hesitantly to Hux’s eyes. “…The enemy?”

Hux exhales lowly and straightens his shoulders, taking a step back as he turns to look at Ren’s discontented form. “We are not here because we enjoy the company.”

“Is there a combat yard?” Phasma says, looking to Dameron with a raised eyebrow as she ignores the ire slowly attempting to coalesce into outright violence. She is under the impression she has more practice at it than anyone else in the galaxy, which may not strictly be false.

“Sort of,” Dameron says, glancing quickly to Rey as he raises an eyebrow slowly. “Why?”

Phasma scoffs, glancing sidelong to Hux for a shared moment of bitter skepticism before leveling the look on Dameron. “Organa wants results in little more than hours.”

The true combat yard has evidently been filled with Hux’s soldiers, so instead Dameron leads them to a particularly large clearing about a kilometer at the back of one of the bunkers. It will be large enough for Ren, but Rey is an unknown quantity. She had defeated Ren, even nearly killing him in the process, but she had been under stress and Ren had been injured.

Theoretically, Rey’s only talent could be eavesdropping on private conversations, and Hux doubts she would have an equally convenient excuse as he of ritual binding.

“Don’t you have bureaucrat business,” Dameron asks, crossing his arms and looking to Hux with a dismissive sneer as they near the center of the clearing. “I can’t imagine you’d be a lot of help in physical training.”

“Curiously, as a man that normally presides over a base of a million, most of which you killed, I am very well versed in delegation,” Hux says, reaching for his blaster at his back. He looks up purposefully as he clicks the safety, watching with a smirk as Dameron flinches and takes a step away. “Lieutenant Unamo is very capable, and merely a data-pad away should something strike me. You, on the other hand, are truly useless.”

“What are you doing?” Dameron asks, eyes flickering between the blaster and then Hux’s face. He takes another backward step and glances at the others around him, and then settles on an equally anxious Rey. “Hey, if he shoots – “

Hux lifts his arm, pulling the trigger without even bothering to aim properly, and enjoys the choked gasps of terror that the action elicits around him. Phasma, for her part, practically sighs in exasperation and looks right at him with a stern glare, hand reflexively on the blaster at her thigh as every one else around them stares at the bolt frozen mid-air with an almost insulting wave of relief.

“You could have warned me,” Ren says, his voice little more than a low growl. He hasn’t even lifted a hand, the bolt less than a half meter from his head, and yet every bit of his sanctimonious arrogance shows in his eyes as he settles them on Hux.

“One of the few benefits of our circumstances is I can shoot you whenever I want,” Hux says, clicking his tongue lightly and gently returning the blaster at his back. “Why would I take that satisfaction from myself?”

“I thought this was a rumor,” Rey murmurs, her eyes brightening with interest as she slowly steps closer to the crackling bolt. “Master Skywalker said I would be able to deflect them with a lightsaber, but he didn’t mention stopping them. How are you doing it?”

Ren mentally balks at the title given Skywalker, nearly forgetting to answer as he glares sharply from underneath his hood. “It is the same as any other object.”

“But it’s not,” Poe says, his disbelief at the lack of clarification rising bitterly. He wants a real lesson, as if he could ever understand. “At all.”

“A bolt is millions of tiny objects, fool,” Hux says, and he steps in closer too, abruptly curious at the odd edges that surround the bolt. The last time Ren and he had practiced this, admittedly years ago now, this veneer had not been present. He wonders if there is a problem with the power cell, though he had checked it himself just yesterday and found it perfect working order.

He reaches out to touch it, curious, and startles when the veneer stretches up to grab at his fingers, pulling away from the bolt and then freeing it into the unknown. He realizes a too-long moment later that it was what was actually holding the bolt in place, and that he nearly just effectively shot himself.

“Ah,” Hux intones, staring up from the ground as Ren becomes absolutely furious next to him. A different, and yet so similar, veneer is stretched over his chest now, keeping him held close to the soil.

“Hux,” Phasma says in a dull voice, scraping her teeth over her bottom lip and looking down on him with a tilted head. “I think leaving the Order has had an ill effect on your intelligence.”

“I could see it,” Hux says, looking back up at her with a frown twisting at his lips. “The Force that was holding the bolt. It was almost living.”

Phasma raises an eyebrow, “So you decided to release it?”

“No,” Hux says, clicking his tongue as the pressure over his chest flutters away. He brushes away the sensation when Ren tries to push him down once more, sparing him a glare as he sits up. “Not purposefully.”

“How are you doing this?” Ren says, his voice suddenly pitching with dismayed confusion. He thinks Hux is somehow taking away his power with every minor touch, like some Force-vacuum come to destroy him and all the ability he has amassed.

Part of Hux is gratified by it, letting Ren experience some of that absolute misery at believing your life is a lie, but the rest of him cannot believe he is putting up with this moronic overreaction. He feels as if there should be an existential quota for such an exhausting event per standard day, but if he had ever been able to put Ren on one, he would have implemented it long before now.

Hux halfheartedly attempts to convince Ren that he is doing nothing more than sitting on mossy ground, but Ren will have none of it, instead choosing to pace like a wild beast. He has his light saber out now, held tightly in his hand, but thankfully deactivated even as he swings it with every long stride.

The performance has the two present unfamiliar with Ren’s capricious emotional stability backing away hastily in fear, weapons held at ready should his ire turn on them. Finn stands notably still, facing forward with his back held straight and wearing a well-practiced expression of disinterest – his lessons so ingrained as to be reflex.

Hux rolls his eyes, only to suddenly find them caught on the figures of two onlookers, both wearing light robes and frowning hard as they speak quietly to each other. The taller notices Hux’s gaze first, mouth shutting as he adjusts his posture to something far more rigid than the situation calls. Neither of them are recognizable as First Order or New Republic, nor are they even remotely discernable from the environment aside from visually, as if they have the same mental defense as Organa.

“You may give it back,” the shorter calls, making a hesitant and odd motion with his hand. “Imagine a stream of water pouring from your fingers, and point it at him. The Force will coalesce on its own, as is the nature of your skill.”

“Who are you?” Hux shouts back, shoving off the ground and struggling to a standing position. “What business do you have?”

“None,” the taller says, and then abruptly they disappear as if they had never been standing there at all, with not even the long grass beneath their feet disturbed.

“Why are you yelling at the field?” Phasma says, her eyes dark with suspicion when Hux turns to look at her. “Is this what everyone meant by madness?”

“I don’t believe so,” Hux says, speaking lowly and looking down at his hands. The Force had attempted to latch at his fingertips when he neared the bolt, and Ren is still having a difficult time pushing him down, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he is consuming the Force; he could merely be dispersing it. He wonders if this is how Organa had blocked Ren’s side of the bond – by simply disturbing the resulting Force rather than attempting to crimp and block it.

The method makes some sense, is even arguably similar to what he already does with emotion, but he feels like she could have bothered to mention it.

“Try it,” Ren says, his voice angry and pitched like an order that he’d give one of the many Troopers he finds useless. 

Hux has half a mind to give it to the girl, with that attitude, if he can in fact do it at all.

Ren narrows his eyes with frustration, but staunchly refuses to apologize. It seems he believes Hux deserves to be treated so shortly for siphoning power from him.

“I am so thankful whatever Organa did has made it so much easier for you two to speak without anyone else hearing,” Phasma says, her voice a quick snap of sarcastic displeasure. Her mind betrays her easily enough, innate curiosity warring with eagerness never to suffer the fights she views as little more than useless aggravation.

“That was true?” Finn says, his voice an intrusive gasp of excitement. He looks to Dameron and Rey in interest, then hunches his shoulders slightly when he realizes he’s also caught the scolding attention of Phasma. “I mean… some Troopers thought they could do that. Not me.”

“We can see into anyone’s mind, traitor,” Ren say, practically barking as he glances quickly to Finn with an angry glint of his eyes. He looks back to Hux only a moment later, pointedly ignoring the rest of the unsettled muttering, and is much more concerned with getting Hux to return his lost power than the petty gossip.

Hux has very little true idea of how the Force convalesces into physical form, but he is fairly sure that it wasn’t so much Ren that he took it from as the atmosphere around him. The thought frustrates Ren enough that Hux knows his speculation is accurate.

 _‘You can strengthen them, you fool,’_ an unfamiliar voice whispers, cutting through his mind with little kindness. ‘ _Belligerence helps no one.’_

The voice reminds Hux all-too-much of Organa, with her pragmatism despite an unyielding scorn. He cannot even glare back at the voice, because it is not there and he is _not_ going mad. Not now.

“What are you hearing?” Ren says, his frustrated urgency flagging the more he eavesdrops on Hux’s thoughts.

“What does that matter?” Hux mutters, refusing to answer and instead concentrating on the earlier, potentially hallucinatory, guidance.

A true stream of water is not something he has had much experience with, though the Citadel does have a rather impressive fountain, but perhaps a simple faucet will do as a tangible stand-in. He opens his hand as he exhales slowly, recalling the feeling and watching with surprise as that veneer reappears, slowly coalescing into something more wild and winding, like the crawling around the book Organa had given him, but larger and unbound.

‘ _What is he doing?’_ Rey says, her voice suddenly grating and sharp against his ears.

It breaks Hux’s concentration, almost dispersing the Force completely, and he glances up to glare at her sternly, then faltering slightly when he realizes her mouth is still pinched tightly shut from earlier. She raises her eyebrows in surprise, stepping back half a pace and using her staff like a cane.

 _‘Do not presume to think so loudly,’_ Ren says, joining in with an insult strongly intended. The pitch is odd, resonating different than Hux has heard during the short time he’s been able. _‘It is insolent.’_

Rey responds with humiliated frustration; anger at being addressed by an enemy _. ‘I cannot control it.’_

 _‘Learn,’_ Ren says, his voice another angry crack.

“You’re no better,” Hux says, declaring the opinion aloud. He hesitantly encourages the Force that has been winding around his hand to go to Ren, watching as it peels off his hand in rivulets of almost-liquid, floating through the air and sinking into the spaces between Ren’s gashed clothing.

Ren inhales sharply, nearly dropping the hilt of his saber as he clutches at his own chest. He believes he is having some sort of heart attack, expecting his body to fail him at any moment. Hux belated realizes he probably should have read the book before trying anything against another person, particularly Ren.

“I feel odd,” Ren says, shoulders relaxing once he realizes the sensation is not designed to kill him. He clumsily places his saber into his belt, then holds out his hands, allowing everyone to watch as they shake in obvious instability. “Full of sudden energy.”

Dameron hums low, “Like a sugar high?”

“Yes,” Ren says, nodding once with unusually steady resolve.

Hux has absolutely no notion of what a sugar-high is, although neither Dameron nor Ren seem to consider it to be relating to any sort of true drug, merely actual sugar. The impression Hux is getting from Ren is more like caf, but admittedly he cannot recall ever seeing Ren drink it.

“How many bolts have you stopped before?” Hux asks, backing away and slowly pulling the blaster from his holster.

“Six,” Ren says, glancing up with interest and readily holding out a hand. “They usually stop after that.”

“An unknown quantity, then,” Hux says, stepping back another couple meters, until his is standing hip-deep in the tall grass. He raises his blaster, waiting the moment it takes the rest of the group to scatter, and then drains off the entire charge in fifteen shots. He drops it back to his side a moment later, listening to the power cell recharge as he steps forward to inspect the veritable trail of crackling bolts that stretches the entire three meters of space between Ren and him. He stops as he reaches Ren, “Still an unknown quantity, it seems.”

“And if I hadn’t stopped them?” Ren asks, mostly to be contrary – his dour mood is bolstering into outright elation with the realization of his current power. He wants to do more – uprooting the entire forest of trees is the first, ridiculous notion.

“Well,” Hux says, shrugging shortly and glancing sidelong at Rey with a slight sneer. “The scavenger probably doesn’t look terrible in black.”

Phasma outright scoffs, actually shaking her head some and looking out across the field just to avoid looking at them.

“She would never stand for your cruelty,” Ren says, glancing to Hux through the corner of his hood, his eyes reflecting amusement against the sun. 

“Few do,” Hux agrees, stepping back before he can do something moronic like smile back. He gestures toward Finn as he stops next to Phasma, “Phasma, you and the traitor practice hand-to-hand. Ren doesn’t need an audience when he won’t be the only one fighting.”

Finn opens his mouth then abruptly shuts it, and finally some wariness and dissatisfaction clouds over his exuberance. He has never trained personally with Phasma, and holds no eagerness to start.

“Technically, he has already completed his tri-weekly exams, and with exemplary marks,” Phasma says, lifting her chin with staid aplomb as she gives Hux a flat stare. “He is not due for training until two days from now.”

Hux presses his lips into a thin line, “I may have lost intelligence, but you have lost respectability.”

“I am deeply hurt,” Phasma responds, completely disingenuous as she lifts a hand to press to her chest with a dramatic pout. She allows it to drop after another moment, her expression flattening into the usual dry stare, “I am far too interested in this to simply walk off without dispute, especially when you’re allowing Dameron to stay.”

“All _owi_ ng me,” Dameron repeats, scoffing under his breath. He has been unusually silent on his opinions throughout the entire ordeal, and it takes Hux a few moments to remember his earlier machinations, realizing the distress is not something Dameron is necessarily suffering naturally. Hux could theoretically rectify the manipulation, but he has almost no inclination.

Hux glares for another short moment at Phasma, completely ignoring the rest of the collective insolence, then turns to Ren with a sharp inhale and a sense of resignation. “Explain it. We do not have much time left in the day.”

“I already said,” Ren says, becoming outright petulant. He lifts a hand and flicks a wrist, causing the uneven line of bolts to spin in a sharp rotation, “It is a control of objects.”

Hux sighs, shaking his head and looking down to check his blaster for a short moment before returning it to his side. It seems to have completely recharged, but he will wait before shooting any more; he may imagine killing Ren on a regular basis, but having it truly happen at his hand would be unacceptable. “She may not even be able to understand something that simple.”

“I can understand,” Rey says, irritated at the offhand dismissal; she foolishly views herself as some sort of prodigy after her ease of escape on Starkiller. “I am… I am only unsure of how you perceive something so small.”

“If he can do it, then so can you,” Finn says, his voice gently sure even as his mind is bursting with encouragement. “You’re of the Light side, remember? That makes you already stronger.”

Hux grits his teeth and quietly adds Finn’s name next to Dameron’s on his list of Resistance members to meet inadvertent deaths, even disregarding Phasma’s opinion. He has absolutely no idea how Finn grew up in the First Order programs without breaking into cynical little pieces like the rest of them, but his cheer is really becoming far too much.

“I don’t actually feel every spec of plasma,” Ren says, voice low as he speaks slowly, discovering a description of his own technique even as he speaks. “The Force is merely capturing all of the particles at once, holding them in place.”

“A net?” Rey says, glancing to the bolts with a scrutinizing bend to her mouth.

“Imagining a net will not work,” Ren says, shaking his head slightly and dropping his shoulders. He steps back, gesturing slightly for Rey, to do the same, then allows the bolts to come loose, shooting off into the unknown. “It has holes, and there is a far more unpleasant technique called a net.”

“Far too gruesome for present company,” Hux says, then glancing sideways when he catches Finn imagining the technique in detail. “Or perhaps not.”

“Danto,” Finn says, his face going pale with obvious nausea. She had apparently demonstrated her power for little more than amusement. “It was worse than anything I had ever seen.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, turning away with a low hum. He looks to Ren, glaring sharply and feeling as if he should be reprimanding, despite the event happening at least two years ago.

Ren exhales harshly, affronted, “I could not control them.”

“You could have tried,” Hux says, raising his brows and steeling his jaw in some long-held frustration. “Perhaps if you had made a better effort as superior, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble formulating lessons.”

“It is not that simple,” Ren says, pulling down his scarf with little more notion than to display his scowl. “You’ve yet to train anyone with comparable power.”

Rey gasps slightly, diverting Hux’s attention with her surprised and even slightly horrified reaction to the scar. She hadn’t expected it to be so pervasive, stretching across that much of his face or jutting so deep. She even likens it to some hideous sandstone canyon on Jakku.

“Are you really daring to insult the way he looks now?” Hux snaps, forgetting his irritation with Ren as an indescribable anger overcomes him. He has an irrational urge to tear her to pieces for such an arguably mild offense; one she hadn’t even intended to voice aloud.

Rey shakes her head shortly, mouth hanging open, “No, of course not.”

“It doesn’t matter, Hux,” Ren says, making an awful attempt to sound indifferent.

“Perhaps begin somewhere more basic,” Phasma says, interrupting with little concern for any potential ire being turned on her, and gesturing toward Finn with an obvious tilt to her expression. “We don’t simply hand a blaster to a toddler and tell them to shoot.”

“I don’t actually remember,” Finn murmurs with a shrug, glancing to an unsubtly curious Dameron.

Ren glares at Phasma for a long moment before looking to Rey, discomfort still crawling through his mind as she continues her boorish staring, “Can you move _any_ objects with the Force?”

“Oh, uh,” Rey says, finally glancing away and then abruptly down the small satchel she has tied at her waist. “…Yes. Actually, I should probably give you something back.”

Hux knows what she is retrieving before the bag is even open, her mind a mixture of embarrassed regret and a mental preparation to justify her actions. She holds out the burnt hilt with a reluctant frown, “I don’t know why I took it, but – I guess I sort of saw it as disarming you.”

Ren steps back from the saber with a piercing scream of horror, until he is far enough that even both arms held out straight could not reach him. “I don’t want it.”

“What?” Rey says, her arm falling to her side in surprise. It seems even she felt his mental distress, but doesn’t understand the context. “Isn’t it yours?”

“I don’t care,” Ren says, so desperately trying to calm himself that Hux actually winces at the sensation that almost scrapes at the inside of his skull. It seems that seeing that saber again is worse than even the presence Skywalker. “It is not the only one I have.”

Rey frowns, “I thought it was better to have one you made?”

“And I do,” Ren says, lifting his hands to his waist and at the saber he secured in the improvised belt. “That one is ill-fated. I don’t. Want it.”

“What should I do with it, then?”

“Whatever you were going to do with it before,” Ren says, scoffing outright even as his voice becomes audibly more distraught.

Rey sighs, shoulders falling from their tense posture as she looks down at the saber hilt. “I was going to throw it into a sun.”

Ren nods, humming tersely and exhaling sharply through his nose with obvious relief. “Mustafar is another option.”

Rey glances up in confusion, still unfamiliar with most systems outside of Jakku. Hopefully, Skywalker will include an actual education between Jedi training, though it’s unlikely judging by Ren’s entirely half-hearted amusement at the implication.

“Volcano planet,” Dameron says, clarifying with a short shake of his head. “Everyone lives underground in mines. It’s terrible.”

“Far worse things have happened on Mustafar than mining,” Phasma says, keeping her voice low and mostly disinterested, even as she raises a significant eyebrow in the direction of Ren.

“Perhaps you can try catching something less dangerous than blaster shots,” Dameron says, apparently all too aware of what Phasma is referencing, and diverting the conversation with a clear sense of unease.

Hux hums low, glancing to Dameron shortly, and watches as he practically blanches at the scrutiny. He is a spy, after all, but Hux didn’t think Organa would have sent someone with his skill on such suicidal missions.

“Does anyone have a stun setting?” Phasma asks, glancing to Dameron and then Finn with a narrowed eye, then looking to Hux with a sense of disappointment. “I would suggest Hux, but he modified his so it no longer had one.”

“I don’t need stun,” Hux says, giving her a dismissive scowl. “If I feel the need to shoot someone, it will be permanent.”

“Other than Ren,” Phasma says, running a pair of knuckles up the underside of her own chin.

Hux glares back for an appropriately long time before turning to look at Dameron, holding out a hand, “Give me your blaster.”

Dameron stares back, defiant for entirely too long, before he seems to remember the earlier incident of his own accord. He looks away, begrudgingly taking the blaster from his side and offering the stock.

Hux bashes the side of blaster against the stock of his own, wincing at the edge as it digs into a thigh, and rolling his eyes at the invasive surprise from his left. He looks up as he uses his fingernails to pry at the pieces of the now-broken plastisteel power-cell guard, “Well? Throw something else at her while I do this.”

Ren glares for a short moment before needlessly uprooting an entire swath of grass.

The act of altering the blaster is difficult without even rudimentary tools, but he manages to use the rough edge of a broken shirtsleeve clasp to the same effect as a simple driver, destroying part of the charger on the power cell, but still allowing it to shoot slower, less forceful bolts. It’s not exactly a stun, per say, but it won’t lead to death unless shot directly at the head, and maybe not even then, which may as well be the same thing.

Ren is doing as instructed: throwing entirely-too-fast shots of leaf-litter and grass at Rey with intention for her to catch them. She is largely unsuccessful, catching about every four attempts, and as her frustration grows, so does Ren’s latent amusement. Hux wonders how long it would take for Rey to realize that Ren is purposefully sabotaging most of her attempts, dispersing the leaves into a wider blast with a prickle of glittering Force.

Phasma has found something worrying on her data-pad, but is only looking at incompetent reports when Hux investigates just slightly further. It seems she has simply gotten bored waiting for something to happen, much like the currently gossiping pair of Dameron and Finn.

Hux flips the blaster over, so the stock sits comfortably in his hand, and takes an experimental shot at Ren. The bolt stops a little late, freezing only a few centimeters from Ren’s shoulder at the same moment Rey catches a makeshift bolt of grasses.

“You’re only preparing me for when you try to kill me,” Ren calls, easily dispersing the barely condensed bolt with a twist of his fist, causing a small burst of plasma as it hits an artificial wall.

“Oh, Ren,” Hux says, shaking his head as he approaches, then absently handing the blaster back to Dameron. “I would never kill you with a _blaster_.”

“What are you doing?” Dameron says, reluctantly curling his hand around the stock. “Aren’t you going to do this?”

“No,” Hux says, tipping his mouth up into an unkind smirk. “I want to kill her too much.”

Dameron sneers back a short moment, then looks down at the blaster. He offers it to Finn, but Finn outright refuses with both hands held up.

“It won’t kill her,” Hux says, stepping back to stand at Phasma’s side. He glances down surreptitiously at the screen, his voice dulling to a murmur, “A dark bruise, perhaps.”

Phasma tips the data-pad away, looking at him sharply with offense, and acting as if he doesn’t have the same information currently sitting in his own pocket.

Dameron sighs heavily and backs up a few steps, gesturing for Rey to move into the trajectory with a bold aim right at her face. Hux wonders absently if the Resistance has any sort of safety training, or if they are all just a conglomerate of lucky morons.

“Don’t aim directly at her,” Finn says, hand darting out and altering the trajectory by only a few millimeters. “More like next to her, Poe. I can’t believe you.”

“But it’d be kind of disrespectful if I didn’t,” Dameron says, glancing significantly between Hux and Ren, then quirking his mouth up to a similarly judging Rey. “Right?”

“The General hasn’t actually been shooting Lord Ren,” Finn says, looking taken aback and then glancing between Rey and Dameron, shoulders hunching slightly in embarrassment. “Am I really the only one who noticed?”

“No,” Phasma says, looking to Finn with a short smirk. Her pride in his talent is downright distasteful considering he helped destroy Hux’s planet, but at least it shows promise for the rest of the Troopers.

Rey and Dameron both flinch at the pull of the trigger, resulting in Rey doing little catching and more dodging. She has rather impressive agility for someone with little combat experience, using her staff as a balance.

“Use the fear,” Ren says, slumping down onto the ground at Hux’s feet, resting his chin on a hand with unfocused eyes.

“Terrible advice,” Rey murmurs, but she stops trying to keep her heart rate low, and even allows her breath to quicken. “Do it again.”

Ren seems to be concentrating on trying to see her attempts through Hux’s senses, to perceive the Force as Hux is now able – he is having little luck, and almost startles when Hux sends him an image of the short tendrils striking out from Rey’s hands. He would have thought Ren had seen that before, as it’s how Hux had often seen his volatile anger, but apparently Ren has simply never bothered to look.

Dameron shoots twice more before Rey manages to stall one of the bolts for a few moments, and her utter surprise is what has it releasing into the forest. She even does an odd little two-step with Finn before focusing once more on Dameron.

The first time Ren had done it, with a live bolt, he had been so surprised he had backed over a stray MSE droid and twisted his ankle, and even that had not looked so foolish. Although, the backward movement had been more because he had suddenly wanted to embrace Hux than at the newfound ability, and judging by the current chagrined glare at the ground, Ren had not meant to reveal that particular fact until after the entire galaxy had aged into implosion.

Rey doesn’t stop the next one, nor the next, but she does manage the three after that, which is such a marked improvement that Hux finds it in himself to be surprised at her swift uptake.

“I believe this may even impress Organa,” Phasma says, nodding shortly with a small upturn of her mouth. “And she doesn’t seem easily swayed.”

“I don’t believe she has ever been impressed at anything,” Ren says, his voice dull with an affected sort of disinterest. His mind reveals little, only a fuzzy image of a thinly smiling Organa, years younger, as she lays a hand on Ren’s shoulder. “She is simply expectant.”

A sudden form snaps into shape over their heads, too abrupt to be a passing cloud, and yet it still casts the entirety of the field and camp into a dark, drifting shadow. It nearly seems to eclipse the sun completely, startling a flock of flying creatures far off in the cliffs to flee in a large, screeching mass of wings.

“What the hell is that?” Dameron says, blaster falling to his side as he stares upward, mouth falling half open in shock.

Hux can feel an odd crawling up the back of his neck, unsure if it is from Ren or himself, even Phasma, and he dreads the idea of following Dameron’s line of sight; he already knows what has arrived only a few kilometers above his head. He hasn’t seen it in years, but it is not something easily forgotten.

“A super star destroyer,” Rey says, her voice a soft confirmation in a low resonance, awe and fear threading through her mind. “I didn’t know there was one still flying…”

“The Citadel,” Hux says, feeling a tight first clasp around the middle of his chest. He is not ready, and Organa knew it more than most. She had said earlier that she intended for him to die; is this part of it?

“She can barely catch stun bolts, and yet my mother expected her to defend so soon,” Ren says, his voice practically a growl. His jaw visible tics with the flex of his jaw underneath, an odd sort of rage prickling like thorns around him and into Hux’s mind.

“I don’t think any of us are prepared for something that size,” Dameron says, and the skittering trepidation in his mind has grown into a loud roar of abject fear. It blends perfectly with the cloud of it practically rising from the camp, easily felt here even a kilometer away. “Not just Rey.”

“She seems to believe many things,” Hux says, pressing his fingers to his brow and digging the nails into his brow as he rubs at the quickly forming headache. He wants to believe it’s the onslaught of outward anger and fear, but is certain it’s something far too innate. “This seems like an elaborate trap to kill us all in one fell swoop.”

“How many of the Knights?” Phasma asks, glancing to Ren and following his movement with her eyes as he stands with an abrupt, jerky shift of his feet.

“Three of them,” Ren says, glancing hesitantly toward the Resistance base; he believes there could already be some infiltrating the disarray of the Order camp. “The others could be blocking.”

“Helpful,” Phasma says, glancing to Hux with an unsubtle note of frustration.

Ren ignores the judgment, looking down at his own hands, curling his fingers into tight firsts and then dropping them to his sides. “Will you be able to do what you did earlier?”

“I’m not sure how I did it to begin with,” Hux says, exhaling slowly and refusing to allow his body to betray his unease. He’s going to have to speak to a few hundred people about dying with little dignity in only a few minutes, and he has prepared nothing. “I am more concerned with the lack of opportunity to speak about this on the Order network, with most of them hiding on different systems and completely _useless_ to me.”

“Hey, you’re not the only soldiers,” Dameron interjects, “We destroyed your weapon, I think we can take this ship.”

“The Citadel is not to be destroyed,” Hux says, hardening his voice and looking to Dameron, trying to see him as the captain of that irritating little fleet of star pilots rather than a simple nuisance. “The Order has few ships already, and even fewer planets.”

Only one planet, really, and it’s useless for anything more than as an example of prior decimation and failure. Snoke may have commanded a few captains to make examples of other systems, but Hux finds any success there unlikely, particularly since the Citadel is here, with three of the Knights, and not out correcting Core planet opinions on political control.

“I don’t give a shit about your Order fleets,” Dameron says, snapping out the words with little aplomb and gesturing sharply at the dimmed sky. “You hollowed out a planet, but can’t build another one of these?”

Hux sneers, resisting the urge to blatantly bare his teeth in threat. “It is a manner of legacy.”

“Perhaps confer with Organa,” Phasma says, her voice a steady note of surety despite the anxiety pressing against her skin and into her thoughts. “She seemed unusually certain of the outcome.”

“Ren was just as sure he would kill me, you know, and look where we are now,” Hux says, leaning back from Dameron and curling his hands tightly into fists at his sides. His nails dig into the skin of his palms, but the sharp prickling pain does little to distract him. “It would seem foresight is not perfect.”

“My saber _is_ here,” Ren mutters, glancing sidelong at Rey and her thin satchel. He believes it to be an ill-omen, as if the saber has specially followed him to this planet, and will then follow to the Citadel, should they even board it, only for Ren to use it against Hux at the bid of Snoke.

“And you refuse to touch it,” Hux scoffs, refusing to allow one fear be overtaken by another. Ren is currently in second place to Snoke in the queue leading to Hux’s demise, and has never seemed to truly want it, which may as well put him behind even Phasma. “Don’t be such a fool.”

“Okay, know what?” Dameron says, leaning forward between Hux and Ren, then lifting a single hand with the easily apparent intent of deal-making. “If you can get in there and kill your… Leader, who ever that is, before they can get to General Organa, then I won’t blast your new ship to pieces.”

“I don’t think you can,” Rey says, still absently staring at the sky with an entirely inappropriate feeling of awe. She taps her staff against the edge of the ground in an odd beat of thought as she walks, “The one on Jakku is still almost whole after thirty years of scavenging, and that is after it crashed into a sand sea.”

“We flew through it in the Falcon,” Finn adds, gesturing oddly with a swoop of his fingers around an imagining of metal spires. “It was enormous even compared to the _Finalizer_.”

“That aside, Snoke never leaves the Citadel,” Phasma says, answering Dameron with a half-formed smirk that barely makes it through her fretful mind. “Your deal is already lost.”

“Never?” Dameron asks, scoffing low in disbelief, and then looking to Finn as if he would know the intricacies of First Order regime. “But how does he make sure you do what he asked?”

Hux grinds his teeth, refusing to look back as he answers, “Fear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More mentions of the Nightsisters... Without actually mentioning them. 
> 
> If you're unaware of their sect, they're a bit comparable to a cross between shadow priests (which use spells to destroy the mind ie: mindspike, mindblast, mindflay) and elemental shamans (if you're familiar with World of Warcraft classes and specs), though they could be likened to any other spellcaster with mental capabilities, but they use Force. In Clone Wars, the ability is supposedly based on their planet, which is something I obviously disregarded, and they do spells from a book (probably inspired from to contemporary wicca) called the Book of Shadows /cough, cough/. 
> 
> Also, I honestly don't believe Leia will be terribly forgiving to Luke for essentially leaving her with no brother in a time that would have been incredibly difficult to handle, but I doubt I'll get that in the movie, so I have expressed that here.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t take orders from you,” Rey says, turning on her heel and practically brandishing her weapon at Hux’s front. 
> 
> Hux lifts a hand to stop Ren from doing anything rash, such as cutting her little weapon right in half. He is practically vibrating with the urge to fight, and is quickly looking for outlets even in these questionable allies.
> 
> “Dameron,” Hux says, looking to his left with an affected, disapproving sneer. “Also tell her that the Order will not tolerate foolhardy guests during this incursion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, I foreshadowed this enough.

The Order camp is understandably panicked, sending enough critical-tagged messages that his data-pad is practically vibrating out of his pocket, but every single member has had a fair amount of experience in combat serving on _Finalizer,_ and are well-practiced at rationalizing fear into productivity. The Resistance is rushing about in a similar harried, but self-possessed, fashion, attempting to maintain morale and composure even as the world literally darkens above their heads.

The real trouble is the New Republic camp, which holds a majority of Core planet sycophants, and none of who are especially accustomed to believing danger is lurking at every shadow. A few are already attempting to flee in ships, darkening the sky above even further and polluting the air with noise. It is so loud audibly and emotionally that Hux can barely think, let alone balance the emotion of Ren, who is falling further into a rage with every step.

Finn and Dameron are speaking over each other in a tense almost-fight about Dameron running off to an X-wing, and Rey wants to go find Skywalker, but curiously believes it would be inappropriate to simply leave.

Hux stops as they reach the edge of the base, on one side the edge of the Resistance and the other of the Order. “Find Organa, tell her I wish to speak with her.”

“We don’t take orders from you,” Rey says, turning on her heel and practically brandishing her weapon at Hux’s front.

Hux lifts a hand to stop Ren from doing anything rash, such as cutting her little weapon right in half. He is practically vibrating with the urge to fight, and is quickly looking for outlets even in these questionable allies.

“Dameron,” Hux says, looking to his left with an affected, disapproving sneer. “Also tell her that the Order will not tolerate foolhardy guests during this incursion.”

Dameron huffs lowly, but doesn’t outright disagree; he is much more accustomed martial structure. “Yeah, alright.”

“Poe!” Rey says, turning on Dameron with an irate frown.

“He technically outranks us,” Dameron says, voice dropping as he gestures in a slow, circular manner. “Or just me, I guess.”

“Why are Force-users so belligerent in the face of command?” Hux says, scoffing under his breath and walking past the pair with a shake of his head. He bites back a smirk when Ren practically shoves him with affronted irritation.

The interior of the Order camp is a comforting cacophony of weaponry checks and officers barking orders, every squad and specialist group readying themselves in previously forgotten uniforms as they await instruction from Hux.  A few are already lining up in front of the command tent, settling into long-practiced file as they see his approach, and Hux nods as he gestures for them to wait a little longer.

The singular requirement of purveying a battle-plan is first having one outlined. He knows the infantry pilots will have the most difficulty, getting to the Citadel bay will be no easy task, but perhaps if he has them fly in a v-pattern… No, that would lead to a far too high loss of life. He no longer has the personnel to use such sacrificial methods.

The Resistance could be easily used as a diversion, and a few well-placed shots may cause enough confusion that the Order’s similarly appointed ships could easily be able to slink into the docks mostly undetected. It is unlikely that the Citadel’s forces have changed radar and id tags in the logs in the time he has been absent; Snoke is powerful, but most of his strategic dominance in the last decade has come from outside sources and his network of spies.

Hux flinches as Phasma puts a hand on his shoulder, forcibly jostling his body to the left until he catches sight of the large, black tips of an _Upsilon_ shuttle just barely peaking above the roof of freighter. Only one sect of the First Order is allowed access to such transport, and it is unlikely that Ren summoned his own.

“It seems this separatist movement will be terribly short lived,” Hux says, pulling out of Phasma’s hold and frowning as he looks to Ren.

Ren purses his lips and glances away, frustrated at his inability to sense the identity of the interloper. None of the Knights are merciful, or particularly level-headed, but the real hope is that they’ve kept to their unspoken pledge of against collaboration. Ren believes he can take each of them individually with little true difficulty.

“Sir!” Mitaka says, his small form poking out between lines of rushing soldiers. He looks up to Hux, eyes wide and desperate, “… Orders?”

“I have been in camp five minutes, Lieutenant,” Hux says, folding his hands at his back and straightening his shoulders. His head is a veritable cloud of bedlam, and he is in no mood to entertain Mitaka’s silent pleas for assurance. “I encourage you to wait with the others, staying away from the VCX freighter until I choose to address the front. You will not have to wait long.”

“…Yes, sir,” Mitaka says, his mouth falling into a thin line of dejection as he attempts to subtly glance at the freighter. The moment he catches sight of the shuttle is a painful stab of outright horror, his small gasp audible as he hunches forward into himself. “...Oh.”

“I will forgive the lack of attention you gave their arrival, Mitaka,” Hux says, attempting to dismiss him further with a short, jerky wave of his hand. “Only this once.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitaka says, nodding jerkily even as his eyes dart between Hux and the shuttle with visible concern. “I will inform Unamo.”

“Thank you,” Hux says, humming slightly and resuming a slow walk to the freighter. He can discern little difference from the noise around him, but hopefully something will become obvious the closer he gets to the shuttle.

“You should stay back until I have killed them,” Ren says, pulling out his saber hilt and holding it at ready in his hands. He attempts to bodily stall Hux, stepping in front of him and squaring his shoulders. “Risking us all would be foolish.”

“This may shock you, Ren, but I rarely heed your advice,” Hux says, sidestepping him with a commiserating look of irritation with Phasma. She has equal appreciation for being underestimated.

“It could be Danto,” Ren snaps, nearly impeding Hux more violently, but then wisely halting with only his hand hovering a few centimeters above Hux’s shoulder. “You know how she feels about you.”

“No,” Hux says, slowing to a stop at the foot of the ramp. The hatchway has a soft, glittering sheen across it, as if a spider has seen fit to make a web. “It’s Girare.”

“Are you certain?” Phasma says, glancing at the hatch with a bemused look. She doesn’t understand what he could possibly have seen in the empty doorway. “She is more subtle than the others.”

“Yes,” Hux says, stepping lightly up the ramp and reaching forward to gently run his fingers over the trap, watching with satisfaction as it disperses against his touch. “She is.”

Girare holds a reputation in the Knights for subterfuge, disposing of the First Order’s enemies without once being personally accused of it. Her method of sabotage is perhaps the very opposite of Ren’s, who often sees it simpler to dispose of an entire household for one individual. She is undoubtedly expecting them, knives at the ready, but without her trap she won’t be able to detect Hux as he enters the freighter.

“Stay here,” Hux says, looking down to where Phasma and Ren still stand at the foot of the ramp.

Phasma sighs, twisting her mouth down with displeasure, while Ren concedes with a flex of his jaw and a short nod, pulling a scarf over his face while silently begging Hux to change his mind. He has nervously begun tossing the saber hilt in one hand, eyes glancing sideways at the visible porthole that rests over the sink.

Girare is hunched over something at the holo-game table, apparently ignoring the noise of the door opening behind her. Hux thinks she is somehow shrouding her awareness right up until the moment he presses the blaster to her neck, and then realizes she was simply too engrossed in attempting to understand Organa’s book.

It seems she can only see blank pages, but that doesn’t make her immune to its curious thrall.

“General,” Girare says, glancing backward in the same moment she attempts to disarm him with a wide band of Force. The blow merely curls around his hand and disappears against his skin, and her burst of horrified shock is like a reward.

“Have you come to kill me, Girare?” Hux asks, looking away from his hand as he raps the muzzle of the blaster into the side of her helmet. “I don’t believe it will take.”

“How are you resisting me?” Girare says, now practically shouting as she steps back, sending a stronger, sharper ribbon of Force toward his neck.

It only caresses softly at the underside of his chin, doing no more damage than a silk collar before it disperses into the atmosphere.

“I don’t know,” Hux says, allowing himself a small smirk. He can feel how much it unnerves her, and doesn’t doubt that the face underneath her mask is as panicked as her mind. She even neglects to throw her knives, a pair clutched in one hand, now unsure of her physical ability as the mental fails at every turn. “Isn’t that the most frightening thing?”

Ren bursts in a moment later, saber lit at his side and Phasma at his back, but he halts in surprise when he registers that the terror in the room is Girare. He glances to Hux, then back to Girare, eyes narrowing slowly as he digs unsubtly through their minds.

“I would like to offer a deal,” Girare chokes, raising her hands in the universal gesture of cowardice. She falls to her knees, head bowed, “N-not necessarily because of what just happened. I was planning – it doesn’t matter. I offer my services, General Hux.”

Hux shakes his head, looking down on her and frowning in an exaggeration of disappointment. He takes another spare moment to more thoroughly decipher her thoughts, and clicks his tongue softly, “The fact that you believed Ren in command of this operation is absolutely insulting.”

“I realize that now, General,” Girare mutters, her head tipping to the side in the Knights’ usual way of expressing repentance. “I offer my deepest apology.”

Ren is infuriated that Hux would oust him so easily, though not enough to say anything aloud to dispute the claim. He never cared to be a true leader to begin with, believing the title to be worth more than the responsibility, yet still determinedly badgers Hux with sharp frustration. It is discouraging how mentally null Girare must be not to notice any of it, completely lost in her disillusionment.

“I hate you Force-users,” Phasma says, sighing loudly and dropping her blaster to her side. She shifts on her feet to something less battle-ready, and tilts her head with a frown at Hux. “Half your fights end with nothing happening.”

“Oh, Phasma,” Hux says, glancing back with a passing smirk. “You know I can discern any lie.”

“Snoke wants Lord Ren returned in any condition besides dead,” Girare says, slowly lifting her hands and unclipping her mask; she believes a revelation of her true face to be some great privilege. Her hair falls out of the back as she tips it forward, the rest further into her face as she takes it off completely. Her dark eyes, sunken into an unsurprisingly young face, flit between Ren and Hux. “I had not known until now it was because the General was acting to overthrow him.”

“Flattering,” Hux says, frowning hard and straightening his shoulders as he slowly returns his blaster to the holster. If she tries anything, then Ren is free to behead her as he so wishes to do.

“I am not the only Knight who questions Snoke’s obsessions,” Girare says, biting nervously at her lower lip as she looks up to his eyes, needlessly opening her mind to his machinations. The only reason he is even aware of it is the second-hand sensation from Ren.

“I don’t believe Danto will be so willing to defect when she realizes it won’t be under your master,” Hux says, feeling the corner of his mouth curl downward in distaste. “Her hate for me is legitimately palpable.”

Girare frowns tightly, her confidence having waned into caution. “She is not… Unreasonable.”

“Isn’t she?” Hux says, resisting the urge to outright scoff as he leans back on his heels.

Every member of the Knights is aware of Danto’s hatred, especially after Ren cut off her arm for that botched assassination.

However… _What?_ Hux turns swiftly to stare at Ren in shock, raising his eyebrows and momentarily forgetting the urgency of the matter at hand. Ren practically squirms under the revelation that Hux did not so much as know about the assassination attempt itself, let alone the gruesome punishment, and has not prepared an explanation for himself.

Hux grudgingly shelves this issue for later, deciding the time to be discussing Danto is either after she is dead or bitterly under his command. He looks down at Girare, frowning stiffly, “You believe she could serve me despite the resentment?”

“Her dislike is personal, not professional,” Girare says, daring to get petulant as she looks up to Hux’s eyes, before abruptly glancing down with a small note of fear. She still does not understand how Hux’s ability works, and has the odd idea that he could vacuum every ounce of power from her. “And her disrespect is largely to do with your lack of real ability, which has now conveniently been revealed as falsehood.”

“What of the other Knights?” Phasma asks, lifting her chin when Girare looks sharply to her in evident surprise — the masks have robbed the entire sect of expressional control. “I will not lead my Troopers in blind.”

“Tyr spoke against the plan for Lord Ren, so Supreme Leader saw fit to end him,” Girare says, relaying the information with little emotion even behind in her eyes, tone dull with disinterest. She is still concentrated on Phasma, as if she is suddenly interesting now that she is lacking a helmet. “Jeryc and Feris fled, no longer willing to suffer the consequences.”

Ren hums low and sharp, “Dyerl is still on the Citadel.”

“…He has yet to truly decide,” Girare says, finally tearing her eyes away from Phasma to look at Ren with an unsubtle glint of implication.

“He doubts my strength,” Ren says, exhaling lowly and narrowing his eyes, then looking to Hux with a nod. “I will be able to convince him otherwise.”

“It is of no consequence if you do not,” Hux says, debating the urge to shrug dismissively with Girare literally at his feet. He hums as he glances down once more, tilting his head, “I only planned on ever having one Knight at my disposal.”

“My shuttle can take you right to the heart of the Citadel,” Girare says, in a sudden, surprising plea for clemency. “Practically to Snoke’s door.”

“Still begging for your life, Girare,” Hux says, shifting his feet until he is completely towering over her, the tips of his boots stepping onto her robes, “How do you think your master feels, watching one of his Knights so weak?”

“I only wish to serve you, General Hux,” Girare says, in a low tone of subservience. Her mind gives no implication to doubt her, even despite the promise being made under considerable distress.

“Well,” Hux says, feeling a sick crawl of delight make its way up his spine. He is disgusted at the fact that Snoke must treat the Knights terribly for her to act like this, but reluctantly understands the compulsory subjugation of such strong subordinates. “You’re already doing better than Lord Ren.”

Hux smirks at the tart sting of frustration that floods from Ren, and then concedes to send a few gratuitous words of reassurance. He won’t make the Knights act like this toward him should he successfully dethrone Snoke – except Ren, who seems to be absurdly jealous.

“I am very glad I cannot read minds,” Phasma murmurs, tone undeniably suggestive; she always somehow knows Hux’s line of thought without any explicit conduit.

Hux sets his mouth in a disaffected line, stepping back and away from Girare. He leans down and picks up her helmet near her arm, kneeling himself in front of her and holding it out, “Stand up. Follow me to our enemy, so that they may fall at your might.”

Girare looks up, eyes wide and relieved. She reaches for the helmet, “I will not disappoint you, General.”

“See that you don’t,” Hux says, standing and retrieving the book that had fallen during the scuffle. He will need to read whatever part of it that explains the ability to imbue Force upon others, lest he botch the application at the very worst time.

“The Resistance is attempting to contact _me_ ,” Phasma mutters slowly, an undeniably bemused note in her voice. She did not know her contact information was publicly accessible, which it had not been until very recently. “I believe they want you.”

Hux turns on his heel with an recognizing tip of his head in her direction, retrieving his own data-pad as he slips the book into the breast pocket. The front is lit up with about fifty messages from Organa’s assistants, four from Dameron, and a single one from Organa herself.

“Girare, ready you shuttle,” Hux says, looking up to find her standing at attention near Ren’s side. “We will be leaving in twenty minutes, and I expect you to be prepared.”

“Yes, sir,” Girare nods, though her head is still bowed slightly as if to avoid looking directly at him. She no longer fears that Hux will do anything against her, but is wary of how feeble she felt when all he did was stand in defiance.

“Phasma,” Hux says, stepping up next to her and gesturing slightly with his chin at Girare. He will give her a responsibility, if nothing else, as incentive to overcome her suspicion.  “Choose a squad, preferably one a sniper and another a medic, and bring them to her.”

“Yes, sir,” Phasma says, raising an eyebrow and quickly glancing sideways at Girare with curiosity. She sighs after another moment, quickly understanding the intention. “I understand.”

Hux nods shortly, turning and walking toward the door, and encouraging Ren to do the same. “We will be back.”

“We will be waiting,” Phasma answers, in a tone of accommodating sarcasm that practically scandalizes the wary Girare.

The Citadel has not sent any further attacks down to the Resistance Base, still only looming silently against the blue sky. Hux’s troops are completely at-ready now: Unamo has taken point in front of the gathered force, with Mitaka at her side relaying a well-placed nod at every few words.

Hux hums low, then pulls out his data pad, opening a secure message bank. He taps out a few words with practiced surety, sending a few notices to choice officers, then looking up to watch as Unamo straightens and presses a hand to her pocket. She glances away from the crowd, looking to him with a short nod.

Unamo turns to Mitaka, whispering her destination in his ear, before leaving her pedestal with a short jump, quickly making her way across the camp. She bows slightly when she reaches his side, “Sir, are you ready to relay our orders?”

“I am, but I believe it would be more timely if I speak to Organa at the same time,” Hux says, looking sidelong in the direction of the Resistance Command bunker. He turns back to Unamo, and gestures significantly with his data-pad. “I want a channel opened, so the soldiers may directly see the meeting.”

Unamo nods firmly, a small frown crossing her mouth as she hastily locates out her own data-pad to find his information. “I will ready some screens, sir.”

“Thank you,” Hux says, lifting his eyes to stare out across waiting masses and then indicating toward the Troopers with his chin. “Assure them that their service in this time is appreciated.”

“Of course, sir,” Unamo says, looking up only to then dip her head in deference. “I await your victory.”

The Command bunker is filled with New Republic leaders, and it would almost be exactly as the treaty Assembly if it weren’t for the fact they are all now honestly looking to him for valuable direction. Even Skywalker waits at Organa’s side, ready to hear Hux’s take on how to defeat his own people. He is still wary, but seems to have spoken to Organa about mental defense, because his mind now no more than a soft buzz of noise.

“Organa,” Hux says, nodding slightly and pulling the data-pad from his pocket. He takes a moment to connect the camera to the Order network, then sets it down against the holo display. The perspective will be slightly unflattering to his appearance, but that is a negligible consequence.

Organa watches the proceedings with a slightly raised brow, her mouth twitching downward, “I take it this is your way of discouraging any outside input.”

“You are welcome to have input,” Hux says, looking to her with a flat turn of his lips. It wouldn’t do to smirk so smugly with this many watching the performance. “However, it will be seen by the entirety of my forces and any of the New Republic spies tapping into it.”

A few of the leaders attempt to defend themselves before quickly falling quiet, his surveillance enough of a deterrence against the potential humiliation. Realistically, it means nothing on a galaxy-wide scale, because he doesn’t have access to the network infrastructure that Organa doubtlessly has in place, but no one else seems to realize it.

“The Citadel has not sent any offensive attacks,” Organa says, and then nods shortly at an assistant, who eagerly reaches forward to display a diagram of the sky above the Resistance base. It displays the astonishing scale of the Citadel against the base with an appropriate sense of inevitable defeat. “What is your opinion on that?”

“Snoke will wait for you to act against the Citadel,” Hux says, reaching forward and enhancing the space underneath the Citadel, specifically the multiple ion cannons. He glances toward Skywalker with an unsubtle sneer. “He believes himself undefeatable.”

“I don’t appreciate the implication that it is my people will strike foolishly,” Organa says, her tone dipping sharply at the disrespect, though whether it is for her people, or her brother, is debatable.

“Nor do I,” Hux says, tilting his head and ignoring her impatience as he sweeps an X-wing up with a pinch of his fingers, aiming it at one of the cannons. “However, I propose you do send the first shot. It will be enough to start the Citadel forces on offense, which will allow you to take a step back and observe the larger TIE population from a distance.”

Hux drags a few of his own TIEs and deposits them in the midst of the simulation, releasing them to mix in with the swirling confusion until they are practically indistinguishable. He then guides a pair of Trooper transports up to fly into the cacophony, easily passing the battle and finding their way into a bay.

“You plan an attempt at misperception,” Organa says, humming lowly and watching the simulation play out for a few more cycles. “It may work.”

“Yes,” Hux agrees, glancing hard to Ren when he seems to move forward to interrupt, and slowly relaxes when Ren actually listens to him. He gestures between the two groups of TIE fighters, largely indistinguishable from each other if not for ID tags.  “The main advantages that the Order retains is that our soldiers will be able to sneak in between and destroy them from the inside through the benefit of resemblance.”

Organa huffs through her nose, tipping her head, “I am honestly unsure if this a weakness or a strength of your unforgiving uniformity.”

“As with most things, it largely depends on perspective,” Hux says, tipping his head to the side with a disingenuous grimace. “In this instance, the benefit is mine.”

“The X-wings will act as decoys,” Organa says, gesturing at the display and multiplying the starfighter population by ten, then setting them to fly in an evasive formation. She looks to Hux with narrowed eyes, a thin frown pursing her lips. “I would be devastated to lose any of them.”

Hux returns the expression, resisting the urge to sneer at the implication. “I am equally uneager to lose my pilots to stray blasts from inexperienced _allies_.”

“I will be sure to have Poe reiterate the importance of paying attention to tags,” Organa says, glancing sideways at Dameron with a pointed raise of her brows. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dameron says, nodding once as he gives her an exaggerated grimace, and a thin measure of shame settles over his obnoxious thoughts of ultimate victory.

Hux nods once, then reaches downward for his data pad, tapping the end transmission option and glancing out across the crowd as he returns it to his inner pocket. They are dissatisfied with his lack of openness to their input, but seem to hate him enough to keep the concerns to themselves, too stupid to acknowledge that his defeat is equal to their own.

“You’re thinking very loud,” Organa says, lifting a hand and pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose. She gestures cyclically with her other hand at Ren, “Please just say it.”

Ren glances to Hux, teeth scraping over his lower lip. He oddly waits for permission before he begins to speak, “We have another Knight. An ally”

Skywalker raises an eyebrow, glancing sharply at Organa before looking back to Ren with an angry scowl, “One of yours?”

Hux resists the urge to sigh outright, simply giving Ren a dark look of exasperation. It’s a depressing set of circumstances when Ren is the least irritating person in a room. Ren frowns hard, very nearly angry before he belatedly realizes it was an attempt at a joke.

“Yes,” Hux says, turning back to Skywalker and drawing his mouth into a pinched line of irritation. “The Knights are dangerous, but flighty. They follow power rather than loyalty.”

“How are _you_ more powerful than Snoke?” A voice speaks up, with an accent even more clipped than Hux’s and belonging undoubtedly to a Core planet official.

At times like these, Hux loathes the Order’s Imperial roots. He doesn’t want to be associated with these spoiled, moronic excuses for Galactic citizens.

“I believe your people already suffered a demonstration,” Hux says, turning to the official, and finding them to be little more than a crone in far too many robes. He would be surprised if they had ever touched a weapon, let alone suffered the true consequences of the Empire’s hostile defeat. “It may take a few years for me to build something as impressive, but I could perhaps come up with a design in a few short moments to allow you some sense of anticipation.”

The official puffs up like an angry bird, though they only imagine a rather tame slap. “You _vile_ –“

“The Knights were under my command,” Ren says, interrupting the argument with a shocking amount of aplomb. He is practically composed in front of the group, which is nearly as surprising as the insinuation of his next words. “Many served rotations under the Generals purview in that time, and witnessed his competency.”

Hux glances quickly to Ren, resisting the urge to raise an incredulous brow.

Ren thoroughly has faith in the assertion, but hates that he’s had to say it aloud, let alone so blatantly to Hux’s face. He already wants to take the words back, believing Hux will bring it up later at an inopportune time, which is an entirely rational concern. In fact, Hux would love to revisit it _now_.

“What benefit will this Knight provide to your battle plan?” Skywalker asks, glancing toward where Rey and Finn stand in the far corner with an odd note of hesitance slipping through his defenses.

“Girare has a shuttle with capabilities of getting into the Knight’s private hanger,” Hux says, reaching up to the Citadel and shifting the focus to a small bay that almost imperceptible on the scan. “It lies within walking distance to Snoke’s private rooms.”

Organa leans forward on the table, her hands flat against the surface as she settles him with a piercing stare. “How can you be certain he will be there?”

“As far as I know, Snoke has not left those rooms since Ren –” Hux pauses with a sharp inhale, flinching as the tension in the room rises to painful, prickling levels, and scorches across his skin. “…Since Ren and I were bound. He is fearsome in his own right, but has neglected to use it in a very long while.”

“Can you defeat him?” Skywalker says, his voice lowering into an apprehensive grumble of disbelief. He has his lips pursed and shoulders hunched tightly, seemingly under the impression that he may be asked to help.

“Of course,” Hux says, scoffing with an overblown show of confidence that he cannot even slightly feel. He forces himself to ignore Ren and his intrusive pity, as it threatens to slink around and into Hux’s mind. “He is an old man. I have not seen him even stand from that throne in years.”

“Old men can be underestimated,” Skywalker mutters, a frown stretching across his face. He could almost be talking about himself, but his tone is far too haunted.

“He will be defeated,” Ren says, squaring his shoulders with an audible exhale, attempting to put up a front of inexorable assurance. He looks like a fool, but at least he knows it. “By any means necessary.”

Organa purses her lips, glancing down oddly before determinedly making eye contact with Ren as she nods. “Yes. I have faith in you.”

Ren very nearly asks for confirmation, he is so taken aback, but Hux manages to catch his eyes before he can make such a fool of himself. He is allowed to act as embarrassingly attention-seeking as he would like after this ordeal is over, but Hux cannot afford for him to fall in a pit of mortified sulking so soon before they face their strongest enemy.

“Organize your fighters, Organa,” Hux says, turning on his heel and marching toward the door. He purposefully neglects to acknowledge the rest of the New Republic representatives, deeming their complete and utter lack of contribution as unworthy to his attention. “I would rather not come back to the trooper and the scavenger begging Ren to somehow bring Dameron back to life.”

“That’s very rude,” Rey says, her voice rising sharply as she gently lays a hand on the shoulder of Finn, who has been simmering in a well of uneasiness that suddenly bursts to the surface. She lowers her tone to something more sympathetic, “He doesn’t mean it. He’s just being cruel.”

“I know,” Finn says, brashly glancing sideways to glare at Hux with one hand curling into a fist at his side. “Why do you think I left.”

Hux resists the urge to respond with similar immaturity, instead waiting until the door of the bunker has been passed before leaning slightly into Ren’s shoulder, catching his eyes.  “I did mean some of it.”

“I know,” Ren says, a short tingle of reluctant amusement surfacing over his growing anxiety. He hums low, thoughtful as his mind races through indiscernible thoughts, before stopping on a very odd memory involving a wispy voice and a holocron. “It may be possible, but I don’t believe it would be even that if he was blown to pieces in the atmosphere.”

Hux shakes his head shortly, “Oh, definitely not.”

The TIE and shuttle pilots are already gone by the time Hux and Ren are even halfway to the freighter, lying in wait for Dameron to make his move, but the rest of the soldiers are still standing at attention for ground enforcements that may never arrive. The all nod to him at once in perfect, practiced formation, and then settle back into their heels with a deep sense of trepidation.

Hux still does not intricately understand how his ability works, but he takes a deep breath and tries his best to set a blanket of resolve over the area, as if he were trying to cover only the outer planes of their many minds. The action leaves him slightly breathless even after just an instant, but it seems to work, as the atmosphere becomes less anxious and more determinedly expectant.

Ren stands as a hovering presence at Hux’s shoulder, wondering both why he even bothered and why he hasn’t simply read the book, as if unaware that the middle of a battle is not the time for Hux to research every little thing.

The _Upsilon_ shuttle is ready as Girare promised, Phasma and a small huddle of troopers ready at her side as she stands at quite possibly the stiffest attention that Hux has ever seen a Knight bother to give.

“Girare,” Hux says, pausing at the foot of the ramp to look at her. “You have had others resist your power. Lord Ren, for example.”

“It is different,” Girare says, turning to stare at him through her white rimmed, helmeted eyes. “Others simply endured it, but you made it disappear. It was as if the Force itself no long saw me fit to wield power.”

Hux ignores the sudden, foreign idea for him to quiet and climb into the ship, striking back at Ren with his own impatience, and maintains an ambiguous eye-contact with Girare for another long few moments. He hums low, deliberately raising an eyebrow as he lifts his chin. “Perhaps, it is simply that the Force does not want to be used against _me_.”

“…Perhaps,” Girare says, tipping her head to the side in a show of consideration. In truth, she accepted his justification the moment he spoke, yet is startled enough by her own sudden belief that she needs to make herself to reflect on it.

Hux hadn’t even needed to suggest it more unscrupulously, she simply accepted the fact that he may be some sort of official Force-chosen. It is a rather thrilling reaction.

Ren, naturally, is absolutely ashamed to even be standing next to him. He wants to do nothing more than bodily shove Hux onto the ground, but resists, only breathing in a steady pattern and stomping up the ramp with a familiar wave of resentment. He values nothing more than the truest meaning of his precious Force, but realizes the benefit in having even just one of his fellow Knights at his back.

Hux follows at a more sedate pace, standing at the door and watching Phasma and her troopers climb in after him, the queue finishing with Girare. She nods to him once more before stepping toward the cockpit, pulling up the ramp and closing the hatch without saying a single word.

“Phasma, your troopers and Girare will act as the backup rather than fodder when we enter the bay,” Hux says, glancing at Girare in the cockpit before gesturing at the pair of snipers with an upward nod. “Ren will need to be uninterrupted should he need to handle Danto or Dyerl, or both.”

“Ah,” Phasma says, clicking her tongue softly and tipping her head back and forth as she mulls over the stark relief that she is not being told to confront them herself. “I should hope for your sake that they are still having an off period.”

“Yes,” Hux says, sighing lowly and grimacing at the thought of fighting the pair together; they have the potential to be startlingly in sync. “Ren hopes the same.”

“Do not speak for me,” Ren says, seething with frustration from his curled up position on the opposing bench. “You are nothing more than a _serpent_.”

Phasma scowls, raising a hand in attempt to calm the understandably edgy Troopers, and glares lazily at Hux through narrowed eyes, “Did you really feel it wise to anger him now?”

“He works better this way,” Hux says, glancing somewhat apologetically to the Troopers as they stare at Ren. He will do a more thorough job of calming the squad should they still be so trepidatious when they land, but for now they can suffer it.

He stands a moment later, pulling the book from his pocket. He does not have much time to search for the information he needs, and gives into the urge to pace rather than holding it back. He ignores the simmering anger slowly bleeding into unease from Ren, and becomes pulled into the charm of the book as he searches for a useful section in this supposed manual to his power. The chapters seem to be written in some manner of code, though he reluctantly admits that might have more to do with the unfamiliarity of the physical form. He has never actually had to search like this before, usually he taps in a keyword and the data-pad lists every useful bit of information for him.

He inhales slightly when the words on the pages abruptly melt into nothing, panicking for a short instant until they return, now showing exactly what he needs: _innervation, the act of instilling Force upon others._

Apparently, it is a moderately basic skill when used on other Force-users, which is rather promising for his hope to continue doing it without any further practice. He discovers about twelve pages later that it is also something he could use on Phasma, but he cannot quite trust himself to do it now – if worst comes to worst, he will use it on a Trooper.

“I believe Snoke can see into your mind,” Ren says, the sound of his audible voice almost startling at this point. “Or, at the very least, manipulate it.”

Hux straightens his back, raising his eyes from the book to stare at the now anxious, huddled form of Ren on the bench. He sighs, pausing his pacing even as his legs urge him to move forward. “Considering he inflicted us on each other, I would imagine so.”

Ren glances sideways at the small group of Troopers and exhales softly, lowering his voice and pulling down the scarf. He is more content to make Hux read his lips, rather than his mind. “He could be assuming you will be tricked into complacency.”

“I only discovered so few could see into my mind very recently, Ren,” Hux says, closing the book with a snap of the binding. He glances downward at it for a moment, resisting the urge to do it again; the act was oddly satisfying. Instead, he hums lowly and returns it to his pocket, looking back to Ren. “I do not exactly believe myself immune to him, or whatever it is you’re having a fit about.”

“Your nightmares were once inflicted by him,” Ren says, and his earlier fury has nearly been completely superseded by this fear that he may still be held responsible for Hux’s death – no matter how inadvertent. “He may do that again.”

“And he likely will,” Hux says, agreeing with a short tilt of his head and resisting the urge to deliberately assault Ren with his irritation. He gestures around the shuttle, “I am not going to stay back in the ship like some forgotten child because you have fear for my safety.”

“You believe yourself a leader,” Ren says, eyes flickering suddenly between Hux’s left shoulder and his eyes. He is more plainly reliving that mortal premonition, if it ever was such a thing. “Leaders are not meant to go directly into battle.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, squaring his shoulders and folding his hands at his back as he steps forward to more brashly look down at Ren, their toes nearly touching. “You dare to say that to my face, but I would love to hear you say it to Organa.”

“As would I,” Phasma says, her voice a dry, comforting note of perfect agreement.

“It is different,” Ren says, scraping his teeth along the line of his lip and leaving behind a chafing line of red. He is attempting to outright lie now, glancing away and concentrating on some uninteresting corner of the shuttle.

“Remember, Ren,” Hux says, lowering his voice and waiting for Ren to glance up, then bringing up a hand to tap at the outline of the small book. He knows Ren was probably eavesdropping as he read, learning every one of the secrets alongside Hux. “I can _empower_ you.”

Ren inhales slowly, eyes glinting as he looks sharply from under the hood. “How much power?”

“More than _he_ ever had,” Hux says, reaching down and running the back of his hand down the plane of Ren’s cheek; the rough of the scar pressing up against this knuckles. “I know your innermost wishes, Ren, though that one isn’t particularly secret.”

A wisely-timed cough from Phasma has Hux backing away just as the shuttle approaches the landing bay, a tell-tale alarm sounding just moments later when the door is fully breached. The shuttle shudders just slightly as it lands, engine cutting an instant too early for the thrusters, and Hux almost makes a note to check with the diagnostics before he is dragged back into the moment when a light saber activates five centimeters from his leg.

“Really, Ren?” Hux snaps, stepping away with a sneer of irritation and resisting the urge to check his trousers for holes. “The pressure hasn’t even stabilized.”

“I want to be ready,” Ren says, glancing backward when Phasma and her squad line up behind him.

Hux inhales slowly and turns, stopping the sniper with a hand on her shoulder. “Stay back here and take out the assailants from back of the bay. Do not attempt to shoot the Knights.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, shifting the strap from her shoulder to her front, and holding the weapon at a relaxed at-ready.

The hatch releases with a small hiss, seemingly timed perfectly for a dark figure to slam against the ramp and then slide down to the bay floor with a low, resonate groan. The half-skull mask – right side, weeping – is the first thing visible when they pull themselves upright, a sickle weapon in one hand being used as a makeshift climbing hook.

“Master Ren,” Dyerl says, his voice weak and breath ragged, even behind the modulator. “It has been months.”

“Are you prepared to obey me?” Ren asks, shoving Hux backward just as he begins to stomp down the ramp. He is still anxious, but also energized; eager for a fair battle despite the circumstances.

Hux will wait until later to be angry with him for the shove.

“In a moment, perhaps,” Dyerl says, coughing hollowly and pushing off the edge of the shuttle. He turns slowly, brandishing his weapon, understandably wary of his current attacker.

An instant later another black-clad figure appears, slashing with a pair of short vibroblades at Dyerl’s gut, attempting to outright eviscerate him. He dodges it capably, forcing them to roll onto their back as he spins out of the way.

“Master Ren!” Danto yells, a wild, hysterical laugh bubbling underneath her mask, the left side a half-skull in a wild grin. “Have you come to witness the final victory over my useless kin?”

Ren practically recoils at the mention of familial murder, swiftly lifting his hand to stop the pair of them with a rolling wave of Force that catches and pins them both in place. Danto squirms uselessly at the bonds, irascible at the sudden stopper to her goal and mind an open book of vicious threats; Dyerl is just as aggressively resigned, already believing Ren is preparing to execute him with little mercy.

The pair are an impeccable example of the Knights continued failings as a sect; choosing matching masks and ideology, then viciously trying to kill each other every time they cross paths.

“Are you two such fools as to have a filial spat in the midst of a coup?” Hux says, descending the ramp at a languid pace and stopping at Ren’s side. “I can see how weak the pair of you are now, barely worth a practice spar after so long spent destroying each other.”

“Hux,” Danto says, her voice a hiss through clasped teeth as she attempts to tear Ren’s hold with a few useless applications of Force. She snarls loudly after she fails, the exhalations harsh against the modulator, “You are little more than a worm beneath our feet.”

Hux sneers, walking forward until he can reach up to grab the edge of Danto’s mask and make her look down at him. She tries to capture him with the winding tendrils of her net, but they all disappear against Hux’s legs and abdomen, and he can feel Danto’s arrogance waning with her strength as it sinks into him. “Are you really this stupid, Danto? Stop being so quarrelsome.”

“What manner of freak are you?” Danto says, still defiant even as her breath begins to quicken.

“You are destroying her,” Dyerl says, some long-absent bond of sibling love reappearing as he watches Danto weaken with every attempted lash. He believes Hux is doing it maliciously, and is somehow surprised at it despite the inherent violence of their organization. “She was going to help you.”

“It wouldn’t happen at all if your fool of a sister would cease attacking me,” Hux says, letting go of Danto and turning to Dyerl’s prone form with a disgusted sneer. He lifts his head to look at Ren, raising an eyebrow. “Release them. If they fight you, or each other, then cut them down.”

The heady Force presence evaporates a scant moment later, Danto falling to the ground next to Dyerl with a heavy gasp of surprise. She looks up and tears her helmet off in a clumsy rush, lifting her hand and patting at her own face just under where Hux’s hand had been with some odd urgency.

“I can feel it, tingling,” Danto says, pressing metallic fingers so hard into her cheek that she leaves white marks that quickly fade to a pale red.

Hux quirks his brow for a moment before turning on his heel, walking past the equally bemused Ren and facing the figures still standing on the ramp. “Phasma, I’d like you and Girare to assault the corridors between the main bay and this one. Reinforcements should be by shortly, once Snoke realizes we have arrived.”

“He has already sent many Troopers down to the surface, traitors,” Dyerl says, shoving himself up on an elbow and dragging himself to a sitting position. His abdomen and side are visibly damp through the gaberwool, leaving red streaks against the alusteel floor; the injuries inflicted by Danto so severe as to already have him anemic. “He heard your plan, listening as you broadcasted it to the entire system.”

“Obviously,” Hux says, smirking sharply as he narrowly glances down at Dyerl’s weak side. “Even if the diversion didn’t work on Snoke, it clearly worked on you both, which is more than enough.”

Dyerl turns away, the weeping of his helmet a perfect reflection of his inner turmoil. He is furious, but aware of his own present weaknesses, which is a far more self-aware insight than expected from him.

Hux scoffs lowly, then abruptly tries to skid to the side, cursing himself for reading Danto’s intentions far too late as his eyes flit to the right just as a disembodied vibroblade swings wide and grabs at his ankle. The sharp weapon cuts through the boot and connects with bone almost instantly, but Ren is quick enough that the blade is cast away with a sweep of Force before it can do much more damage.

Hux hisses through his teeth, angry at himself for actually falling to the ground at the blow, and leans up to press a hand to the seeping wound. It stings more than aches, but the pain is easily ignorable, and he is more concerned with the way his fingers come away with blood that is quickly soaking into his socks and filling his boot.

Ren is infuriated, gratuitously spinning the saber in his hand as he rounds on the snickering form of Danto. Ren can’t decide if he should simply remove another limb, or make an example for actually managing to touch Hux. He makes a few superficial swipes, singeing Danto’s flesh arm with the saber, and baring his teeth in satisfaction at the resulting muffling of her laughter behind pain.

“Ren,” Hux says, grimacing at the unsteady pitch of his voice. He begins to stand, shakily holding out a dismissive hand when Girare is overcome with a confused tension, wondering if it would be more appropriate to help Hux or to continue after Phasma. “Stop toying with the woman. Kill her or don’t.”

“She hurt you,” Ren says, sweeping his saber out and pointing it at her defiantly lifted head. “She endeavors to do more.”

“She's been at that for years,” Hux says, grimacing as he looks down to find the blood spilling out of the boot with a disgusting streak against the floor. “Be useful and come over here.”

Ren scowls, chest heaving with anger. “Hux.”

“She’s not going to do more,” Hux says, looking past Ren and down at Danto. He stares for a few moments, then gives into the urge and finds that little thread of fear, Danto’s belief that she cannot possible beat Ren, and brings it to the surface with a stiff, inconsiderate yank.

Danto breathes defiantly for a few short moments before her shoulders fall, head tipping downward and away. She refuses to say the words to Hux, but the surrender is clear even before Dyerl gives her an angry smack to the side of the head with the hilt of a sickle. He hunches over and covers his wound with a shaking hand, trying to deter her revenge without making a single physical move.

“Satisfied?” Hux says, urging Ren to see to the ankle with a pointed glance downward and the memory the marks disappearing from his hands.

He should probably take off the boot, but that would require more time than they have, now knowing that the ground forces will need him to work quickly. Rey and Finn have already proven themselves frustratingly effective against multitudes of First Order soldiers, but he has no idea about the rest of the Resistance, and doesn’t wish to lose support when his victory is so unspeakably close.

Ren deactivates the saber with a flick of his wrist, glancing down to the wound with a pinched grimace. “I am surprised you can stand.”

“I have had worse,” Hux says, shifting his leg forward as Ren bends at the knee, wincing as fingers curl ungently between the split leather and press against the wound. “But I do not need more weakness in front of Snoke.”

“I am not sure how well I can mend it,” Ren says, voice going low and frustrated, but he seems to be doing something nonetheless as the sharp, stinging pain slowly fades into a more tingling ache. “I cannot see it. I could be doing nothing more than taking away the pain.”

“We don’t have time,” Hux says, gritting his teeth when Ren presses his fingers deliberately hard against the wound. “Snoke needs to be killed before I bother with gratuitous medical care.”

Ren exhales, standing and then glancing to Hux’s eyes with worry toward blood loss, wiping the residual from the boot off his hand and onto his trousers. “You are a hypocrite.”

“A split ankle is nothing like a having intestine practically spilling out of your side,” Hux says, sneering sharply and pressing past Ren, relieved when the ankle barely twinges at the movement. He walks past the errant twins, resisting the urge to have them both thrown bodily out of an airlock.

“Are you truly going to simply leave us?” Danto says, her voice a sharp shriek of offended anger. “Do you not consider us worth your attention? I just attacked you!”

“I can kill you later, if you’d like,” Hux says, shouting back as his hand curls around the blaster at his back, pulling it out and disengaging the safety while the bay exit door slowly raises open.

Snoke purposefully has his quarters located less than two hundred meters from the Knights’ bay, so his wrath or favor can be delivered upon them in haste whenever they return. Hux has not had privilege for a personal audience in this part of the Citadel since Ren arrived, but the design of the outer area is no different than it had been those many years ago, and he finds the door without having to peak at Ren’s mind for direction. The corridors are suspiciously empty, barring a stray MSE droid, and he knows with every sideways glance that there has been subtle manipulation to discourage unwanted loitering.

“This is certainly far less difficult than I anticipated,” Hux says, glancing sideway to Ren and feeling the shared anxiety roll over and burst, growing into something fierce and crawling.

“I do not want to do this,” Ren says, hands twitching at his sides as he stares at the door just a few meters down the corridor. He exhales sharply and hunches his shoulders, eyes darting across the empty space before landing on Hux. “I feel something terrible has been following me.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, frowning slightly and wondering some if this is part of Ren’s lingering concern about the the sides of the Force. Hux knows he has done some rather… Questionable deeds recently, and constantly invading minds and warping them to his use is not what most would call _Light_.

Ren huffs in utter disbelief, shaking his head and pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. His mind is a mess of simple sensations, barely detected flickers in dark corners and a slither of ill-intent up his back. “It is worse even than you.”

Hux exhales softly, “Snoke?”

“It does not feel like him,” Ren says, but he drops his hands as he looks again to that ominous door. “I cannot be certain.”

“You believe you’re feeling it stronger now,” Hux says, glancing twice down the corridor before putting his blaster away and turning to face Ren.

“As if it is trying to consume me,” Ren says, voice resonating low and anxious. He is staring down at his own shirtfront, and he almost seems to recognize himself less for the longer he does it.

Hux leans forward and hesitates only a moment before he lifts his hands, grabbing Ren’s head to force him to look up and stare at Hux rather than at himself. He presses his thumbs down the uneven edges of Ren’s cheekbones, tracing along the edge, and then leans in to capture his still-open mouth.

Ren whimpers in quiet surprise, shoulders relaxing by measures as he drops his hands to clasp around Hux’s waist. He nearly presses Hux into the wall before thinking better of it, and even accepts it without argument when Hux to breaks away after only a few seconds.

“You concentrate on me,” Hux says, speaking lowly and firmly, keeping his hands still and refusing to allow Ren opportunity to look away. “I am going to give you power. You are going to rip Snoke apart.”

“Yes,” Ren whispers, his nod little more than a shift of his head.

“Good,” Hux says, leaning forward and pressing another quick kiss to Ren’s lips before releasing his head.

Hux takes a deep breath and ignores the perpetual crawl of anxiety, closing his eyes and remembering the fountain three kilometers to their left. It is in perpetual motion, constantly flowing from the upper level of the Academy to the lower, and had been the most amount of water he had ever seen in his very short life, until he had earned travel privileges through suffering Ren. He envisions that flow now, breathing evenly as he opens his eyes to find Force running around and through his fingers, in a much larger mass than he had gathered just hours ago in the field.

He inhales deeply and looks to Ren, watching as he stands up straighter in attempt to ready for the onslaught of power. Hopefully, he will not suffer any sort of harmful fit, mental or physical.

Hux doesn’t let it flow this time, instead physically pressing it directly into Ren’s chest. He holds his hand still to feel the power move through Ren, to discern every little change: the uptick of heart rate, the twitching of his muscles, and the swell of his lungs as the takes a deep, shocked breath.

“I need you to tear open that door, Ren,” Hux says, leaning forward until his lips near the edge of Ren’s ear, brushing against the lobe, “To enter that room and destroy our oppression.”

“Yes,” Ren says, breathing in long steady swells and thinking of many perfectly vicious things he could do to Snoke. “He will fall.”

The door resists Ren with a sharp groan of durasteel, but soon the warping metal almost screams for a release as Ren drives it to open with a twist of his hand. The locking mechanism snaps open an instant later only to stick against the seams of the door itself, which are now bent outward like they’ve suffered an explosion.

The entryway to Snoke’s quarters are remarkably similar to every other command center, barring the way the long walkway leads here to a small throne, rather than an empty holo display. Snoke is seated, as he always is, when they enter, and it would all almost feel easy if it weren’t for the way his mind is so thoroughly blocked, or the small concern of the hooded figure at his side with no mental presence.

“Kylo Ren,” Snoke says, his voice a resonating boom against the rounded walls of the chamber. “I see you have made a terrible choice, yet another in a long line.”

“Perhaps,” Ren says, lifting his chin even as his hand hesitates at his belt. He is unsure of whether it would be unwise to use his saber, and is just as uncertain of the identity of the figure.

“I will do to you what I did to your subordinate,” Snoke says, gesturing to his side with little apparent concern. “You will be of more use this way. I should have done it the moment you stepped foot on my Citadel.”

Hux swallows hard as the figure steps forward, their hooded face revealing a mess of broken capillaries in the dim light, and their eyes completely empty of being. It seems the reason for their subtle mentality was not so much a similar defense as Organa, but instead a complete lack of any awareness at all. The figure is little more than a doll; a mindless plaything for Snoke to command.

It is also undeniably Tyr, or it was Tyr, and Ren is both horrified and mournful. Tyr had been the only Knight to respect Ren without being first forced to suffer under his power.

Tyr dives forward without expression, brandishing his broad vibrosword and nearly managing to completely take out Ren’s head in one go before he has time to recover from shock. Ren hastily pulls his own weapon at the attempted strike, reservations against the use completely gone as he next lunges at Tyr with a short twist of his wrist, managing to slice through little more than a sleeve as Tyr dodges sideways and backward under the momentum of a jump.

Hux reaches for his forgotten blaster, cursing himself for being such a fool, and raises the weapon with an easy shot at –

He stops, blinking in confusion at the very, very empty space in front of him, now devoid of the frantic figures of Ren and Tyr, or even the frustratingly careless Snoke. He keeps his blaster up as he twists around frantically, searching wildly for any sign of life as he rushes forward toward the edge of the podium. It seems so real, though it cannot be, and he starts to feel his breath quicken the longer he fails to cast off the illusion.

Hux can still feel Ren, though he is very muted, little more than a soft presence in the back of Hux’s mind with no feedback on his thoughts or emotions – at least he is definitely still alive.

He startles when Snoke suddenly appears on the podium, hologram flickering convincingly when Hux stumbles backward through the front of it in a reflexive move to reclaim his usual spot. He even tries to shoot, but the bolt merely hits the back of the room with a dull hiss.

“General Hux,” Snoke says, shaking his head slowly and curling knotted fingers over his lap. “You have been nothing but trouble to me, ever since you were a child.”

“You should have killed me then,” Hux says, stepping forward defiantly and raising his chin with a sneer. “But instead you gave me your strongest weapon.”

“I admit I underestimated your considerable intelligence when I chose to save you for Kylo Ren, but he needed something more indirect than the others could provide, even when they were young,” Snoke says, oddly accommodating in explaining his scheme now that he believes Hux will soon be dead. “It is of no consequence now.”

“You should have killed me!” Hux says, feeling his throat grow tight as he repeats the words with an ache of exhaustion behind them. He had done so much for the First Order, brought it so far in reputation, destroyed everything he could that lie in its path to domination, yet he was still seen as little more than Kylo Ren’s deliberate weakness.

“Yes, but this will have to do,” Snoke says as he leans back in his throne, waving a hand dismissively as he disappears into nothing.

Hux inhales sharply when he hears a familiar buzz burst to life just behind him, turning around on his heel and looking across the far side of the catwalk as Ren… No, this isn’t Ren. It’s some twisted version of him, expression blank and emotionless in a way that Ren had always endeavored, but never accomplished.

“Hux,” it says, blinking and then nodding far too slowly as it slowly raises a hand. “I have to do this.”

Hux curls up just as he is thrown backward by Force, landing painfully on his back against the walkway floor. It’s cool and solid under his hands, difficult to gain traction against as he scuttles backward, and he has to make himself remember that it is not real.

 _None_ of this is real.

He should have read – he hastily reaches for his pocket as the delusion slowly walks toward him, but of course it’s not with him. It’s back wherever his body is currently being useless. He tries to remember walls, the feeling of them up against his back like the current unforgiving durasteel beneath his hands.

He breathes harder as he desperately tries to conjure up more panels against every corner of his mind, but he has no boundaries, no form of reference, so he cannot do it quick enough, and as the light saber rises above his head – he imagines, instead, a small room. It is dour and bare, little more than a closet, but he is safe inside it. He does not need to worry about visitors, because there are no doors; he does not need to worry about watchers, because there are no windows; and he does not need to worry about noise, because he is in the quietest void of space.

Hux is _alone_.

Later, long after everything goes dark, he hears a continuous harshness of sparking electricity, marked by a periodic clash of buzzing, the combination of both ungently drawing him out of his stupor. He forces open his eyes, blinking slowly to clear his sight, but he still needs a moment to recognize and remember that what he is watching is Ren fighting against the empty body of Tyr.

Ren is obviously tiring, streaked with sweat at having been made to fight continuously for however long Snoke had Hux trapped, and it is clear that every attempt to freeze or stop Tyr is met with Snoke simply releasing him to further rampage. Tyr is visibly abused and broken beyond living capability, missing one arm and a sizeable chunk out of his chest, but he still keeps attacking as strongly as he had when whole.

Hux hastily scrambles for his fallen blaster, raising it to aim unsteadily from his stunned position flat on the floor. He tries to hold his hand steady, but it is practically vibrating, so he grimaces and fires imperfectly, exhaling in relief when he actually manages to hit Tyr in the shoulder without even grazing Ren.

Tyr absorbs the blow with a jerk that twists him to the side, giving Ren just enough time to dodge a miscalculated slash and neatly turn on his hip to sink his saber into Tyr’s neck, swiftly burning through the bone of his spine. Tyr attempts to stumble toward Ren for a scant second, then sinks to the ground in an ungainly pile; the disembodied head twisting at a ghastly angle.

Hux exhales hard, resisting the urge to fall back onto the floor and close his eyes. His head hurts terribly, the throbbing pain more powerful than when his mind was wracked with nothing more than the foreign screams of supposed billions.

He barely gets a moment to breathe, yelling for Ren with spiking horror as Snoke suddenly casts a slimy, tar-like tentacle of Force from the palm of Snoke’s hand and darting right for Ren’s head. Hux imagines desperately that he can stop it from a distance, hoping this is another hidden talent that he has simply not read about, but instead he ends up rearing back in shock when the tentacle hits Ren with enough pressure that he falls to his knees with an audible cry.

Ren clutches his head and begins shaking, screaming in far worse pain than Hux has ever heard him, inside his mind or out. He is clearly attempting to fight it, but none of the huge waves of Force so much as make an impact on Snoke as the writhing lead works its way into his mind.

Hux wants to stand and rush over, or raise his arm and shoot, but his limbs refuse to obey. He realizes with despair that he can no longer perceive Ren’s psyche, and Hux practically echoes with the absence, hitting up against unseen walls between them.

He tries to send more power, but is seemingly too dazed from the invasion from Snoke, and he cannot even conjure a trickle along his limp palm. He is forced to watch as Ren continues to writhe on the ground until finally he stills, hands relaxing and falling from his face, revealing a streaks of tears that trail down into the scarf at his neck.

Hux is struck then with the terrible epiphany that all of the physical power in the galaxy couldn’t have defended against this, and that it was something that Snoke knew perfectly. Hux should have found a way to give Ren an unbreakable mental defense, rather than foolishly assuming that an unrefined method based in the combat would work on Snoke.

A long moment of painful silence spreads through the room, and then suddenly Snoke begins to laugh. It is a painful, grating noise; smug in nature and cruel in intent.

Hux slowly turns to Snoke, standing upright on shaky feet, and lifts his blaster to shoot. He barely gets off two inaccurate bolts before he’s thrown back to the ground, and the blaster ripped from his hands.

“Now, now, Hux,” Snoke says, lifting a hand to catch the blaster from the air. He curls gnarled fingers around the stock, then drops it to settle on his lap. “You may have escaped Kylo Ren in your mind, but you will never escape him here. You will suffer for your misdeeds.”

Hux swallows and glances to hesitantly to Ren, feeling something ache like a blow to his chest when those eyes open with nothing behind them. He is oddly thankful that Snoke took the blaster; he does not want to die knowing how it felt to shoot at Ren and mean it.

“We are not meant to interfere!”

Hux flinches at the foreign shout, turning sideways and catching sight of the shorter man from the field, now inexplicably standing in Snoke’s doorway. Hux feels his mouth drop open further when the taller man materializes just as abruptly in front of Ren, stopping his dead-eyed march with surprising ease. The man grabs Ren’s head and suddenly disappears into nothing once more, only now Ren’s body is surrounded by an odd glow of crackling pale Force, seemingly returned to autonomous faculties.

Ren slowly turns, blinking against pale glowing eyes and opening his mouth, an entirely unfamiliar voice emerging. “You knew I would do this, Obi-Wan.”

Hux has an awful, impossible notion of what he is watching, but he would really rather pretend he’s finally gone mad like everyone has expected of him. Perhaps, he is even still sitting in Organa’s office, and Ren is still sleeping in the freighter, and no one has ever been possessed by their own dead grandfathers in the most twisted wish fulfillment of all eternity.

“Hux!?” Snoke says, his voice little more than a weak scrape of noise. “What have you done!?”

Darth Vader tips Ren’s head, looking slowly to Snoke with a sneer and hands held in loose fists at his sides. “He has only done my bidding, Inquisitor.”

Hux has no context for any of this, and lifts both his hands to press his fingers hard into his brow. He swallows a few times, trying desperately to rationalize the image in front of him: it isn’t so different from being able to change the emotions of an entire crowd, is it? Or to be able to talk to find Ren from half a galaxy away.

Except these individuals are _dead_. Death is meant be far more permanent than what he is witnessing.

“You are a fool, Inquisitor,” Darth Vader says, tilting Ren’s head so far that his hair falls into his eyes. Somehow, it doesn’t look half as silly, which makes it all the more alarming. “Few could have given this boy the power to contain me, and you bound him to one as a _child_.”

“Forgive me, Master,” Snoke says, voice shaking as his boggy eyes widen in obvious terror. “I only endeavored to continue your life’s work.”

“And instead you vandalize my image, you warp my legacy, you target my bloodline; all to create this whimpering excuse for strength,” Darth Vader says, marching slowly up to Snoke’s throne and then lifting a hand in a markedly familiar gesture. “You are doing nothing more than continuing Sidious’ work.”

Hux watches in shock as Snoke is smoothly lifted from his throne, ungainly limbs sprawling and blaster falling down the stairs. He chokes desperately, clawing at his throat and kicking outward at nothing.

“Be thankful I have not dragged your death out longer,” Darth Vader says, and then squeezes his curled hand into a fist, finally ending Snoke’s struggling in an abrupt moment. He practically throws Snoke onto the steps of the throne with little more than a grimace, and then turns on Hux, “You.”

Hux feels his breath shorten as those heavy footsteps come closer, and only wishes he had the excuse of intangible choking. He has always denied Ren’s ramblings as absurd – is he now going to suffer for it? The Academy had been full of horror stories of what Lord Vader often did to incompetent officers.

“Remember this,” Darth Vader says, sounding almost awkward as he stops a few meters away, settling Ren’s hands on his waist. “See to it you stay on the right path.”

Hux swallows and forces himself to look up, carefully keeping his eyes just shy of making contact with the unnaturally pale irises. “Yes, Lord Vader.”

Darth Vader makes an odd frown, almost a grimace, and then the blue glow of the Force dissipates into nothing from around Ren’s body, leaving him to collapse into a pile on the walkway. The room is abruptly cold and empty, silent aside from Hux’s own distraught breathing and –

“No, no,” Hux murmurs, hastily crawling over on hands and knees, no more care for deference as he reaches out desperately at Ren’s loose shirtfront to pull him close. His skin is cool to the touch and a near-translucent pallor, stiff and waxy like he has been gone for hours rather than minutes.

Hux inhales in little more than a short series of gasps, and his hands barely obey as he shoves hard at Ren’s shoulders. His feels his lips tremble when Ren barely shifts under his touch, every line of his body rigid. “You fool, wake up!”

The dim atmosphere does little to make Ren look better, casting his face almost ethereal with pale light. It is so appropriate an image, so arguably brought upon himself that Hux finally understands Ren’s habit of destruction.

“You finally got your damned wish,” Hux says, ignoring the crack in his voice. He refuses to acknowledge the burning at his eyes, blinking back the moisture that threatens to cloud his vision completely. “And look what that bastard did.”

No intangible voice echoes from the corners of the room, no otherworldly figure appears to apologize for it’s transgression, which is just as well: the man was Ren’s grandfather.

“This is – I never wanted you dead,” Hux murmurs, reaching down and allowing himself the sentimentality of pulling Ren’s giant body into his lap. He shakily brushes a stray lock of hair from the side of Ren’s mouth, resisting the urge to tear at it for daring to be so soft in this horrible moment, and tucks it messily behind a cool ear. He swallows hard at the tightening in his throat, “What a terrible excuse for a eulogy.”

His mind is finally calm and quiet; it is nothing like relief.

“I will destroy her,” Hux swears, curling over Ren’s body and digging fingers into his side and shoulder. Hux is so wretchedly angry suddenly, the feeling threatening to burst from his chest with lancing claws against his throat. “She knew this would happen. She _knew_ …”

Hux balls up a fist, slamming to down twice, three times against the surface of Ren’s chest; unable to find any care for desecration. If Ren cares about his bloody stupid body, then he can come back and fight him about it – he’s probably watching as one of those blasted ghosts, always so heedless to the pain he inflicts on Hux.

The attempt at spite does little to help, and he can barely see through the opaque sheen as the tears finally spill down his cheeks. He has not wept in years, and now it is as if his body is forcing him to make up for it. He pounds his fist down again, harder, until it feels almost like the –

A cough —someone is coughing, and it isn’t Hux.

Hux opens his eyes with a startled inhale, hastily wiping at his eyes with ineffective leather and clumsily grasping at Ren’s cheek to look at him. “… Ren? Ren!”

Ren blinks slowly, taking far too long to  focus even as he raises a shaky hand to press gently to the front of Hux’s cheek.  “…Tears?”

“Quiet!” Hux chokes, mouth trembling so hard he nearly bites through his lip. He bends over further, trying to pull Ren higher up against his heaving chest to no avail. “I hate you – I _hate_ you!”

“I know,” Ren murmurs,  every breath so hollow that it sounds painful. He slowly curls up and inward until his arm is around the back of Hux’s neck, the other still trapped between them as they breathe against each other.

Hux had not felt Ren wake, and even now… He is _so_ cold.

Hux inhales unsteadily, his throat growing painful and threatening to close completely as if to suffocate him. “…I don’t know what I’ll do when I wake up.”

The cool breath falters slightly against Hux’s neck, “I do not feel like a dream.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Hux snaps, his voice cracking like glass. He has never felt so weak; how is he meant to lead when his mind is so fractured? He has lost _everything_. He’s no better than that trooper, lying in a self-imposed coma and waiting to be woken, except when Hux wakes, there will be no miracle. He has done nothing in his wretched life to deserve such existential kindness.

Ren stares up a few moments longer, then slowly, awkwardly curls his hand around the back of Hux’s neck. “I am certain I would not be so exhausted in your dreams.”

The laugh that escapes Hux’s throat is very nearly a sob, and he has half a mind to bash Ren’s head against the floor for such cheek. Instead, he finds himself curling his fingers into Ren’s side, feeling the edge of a gnarled scar. “You may be convincing me.”

“I cannot perceive your mind either,” Ren says, and his swallow is palpable against the surface of Hux’s collarbone as he shifts his head upwards, lips brushing against Hux’s jaw with every syllable. “I feel it is a very dangerous position to be in.”

Hux breathes quietly for another few moments before indulging himself, shifting back enough to uncomfortably crane his head. Ren’s lips are still soft and wide, barring the crack down the side, and he feels tangible enough with the clumsy, awkward biting and the way he digs his thumb ungently into a tendon at Hux’s neck.

A sudden scream of terror and anger, sharp and resonating as if made of a thousand voices, pierces into Hux’s mind. He cries out as he pulls away, barely feeling the sharp way Ren’s teeth tear at his lip.

The feeling burns and twists, breaking through that quiet, windowless cell with such sharp spines that it is as if his mind is being torn asunder in every possible direction, until suddenly, when there is so much pain that he can hear nothing and his entire vision is a mere dark haze, it is gone. A few seconds later, everything returns like a resonate echo; he can feel Ren practically choking him at a very unfortunate angle that is not quite on his knees, and sending pleas at his ever-merciful god Lord Vader.

Hux exhales softly, wishing he had strength to reach up and press fingers against his aching brow. Why must every destruction of mental defense be accompanied by such horrid pain? 

“Hux?” Ren asks, both hands still at Hux’s collarbone as he leans in with a wide gaze, their eyes meeting so closely that it may as well mean nothing with how it blurs.

Hux swallows hard, shaking his head as much as he is able and feeling a strong ache pulsate with every physical shift. He can hear again Ren’s mind, a mess of hypocritical worry and terror; see again the glowing Force rising from Ren’s hands as he raises them to cradle Hux’s skull. “I may have shielded my mind too effectively against Snoke.”

Ren exhales, curling his large hands around Hux’s head and pressing thumbs hard to his temples. “Only you could overthink such a thing.”

“It was necessary,” Hux says, frowning weakly until Ren presses forward and practically consumes it with another kiss, physically expressing relief where words are inadequate.

The broken door jams and stutters almost open only a few moments later, revealing Phasma streaked in fresh blood; a pair of seeping blaster shots visible through the light leather of her jacket. She barely glances at them as she rushes past and toward Snoke’s prone body, still spilled over his throne. She starts laughing, the sound echoing from deep within her chest and undoubtedly hysterical, “You managed it!”

“In so many words,” Hux says, mouth twisting into a bitter smile. He is more than satisfied with the result, but has no eagerness for a repeat.

Ren’s fingers trail from Hux’s head and down to his waist as he leans back, but he makes no other move to stand, simply turning to face toward Phasma. “I may have died.”

Phasma spins on her heel, tipping her head and narrowing her eyes sharply at Ren. “...You believe yourself dead?”  

Hux flexes his jaw, swallowing thickly against the resurgent awfulness of memory. He drops his head until his crown is against the hollow of Ren’s shoulder, muttering, “He came back.”

Phasma hums low, ever skeptical, “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite a lot of this because I suddenly decided that Hux should have a court of Knights like King fucking Arthur or something, so it's probably really stupid.
> 
> A lot of the reason I ended it this way is because I wanted to humble Hux, so if you're really disappointed, I totally understand. I did build up to something of a completely different victory, but I am toying with the idea of making him sort of a Scully in the epilogue. 
> 
> (I haven't actually written the epilogue, and I may put it in a completely different post.)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this around Dec 30th and am only now beginning to post it, because I am the slowest writer in history. It is mostly done at this point, over a month later. EDIT: I began this under the impression they had a similar age difference as the actors, so rest assured there's not any implications of a fifteen year old creeping on an eleven year old.


End file.
